


The Price of Freedom

by ACometAppears



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Ableism, Anyways, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Civil War, Fix It Fic, Gen, Genderqueer Bucky, Genderqueer Bucky Barnes, Heavy Petting, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Infinity Gems, M/M, Manipulation, Medical Horror, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control, Non Binary Bucky Barnes, Non-Binary Bucky, Outing, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pansexual Bucky Barnes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining Steve, Sign Language, Torture, Triggers, agender the Vision, as in . . . it's set next year so typical for now unfortunately, as perhaps the world's leading authority on waiting too long . . ., brief mention of past suicidal ideation, but that's how i wrote it so yeah, character death except it's marvel, fucking fox news, i wrote this as trans steve but it's more subtext that text so you can think whatever you want, idk why i'm writing this i think it's mainly for me, is that a term the kids use these days, nb Bucky, pining Bucky, post AOU, pre-emptive fix-it fic, racism mention, so....................., some content that can be seen as gaslighting, sorry for any offense caused Tony stans, stevebucky - Freeform, there's a lot of mutual pining to be tbh, yeah the endgame is stevebucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:31:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 114,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve finally finds Bucky when he's clearing out the last active Hydra base on US soil. After a long recovery, Bucky finally joins the ranks of the Avengers - but not everyone is pleased with him being part of the team. Tony Stark doesn't trust Bucky, and he doesn't want to work with him. When someone on the outside exploits that lack of trust, each of the Avengers has to decide who they'll stand with. </p><p>A reimagining of the civil war story arc, focussing on Steve and Bucky, and their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think I probably covered it in the summary. This fic is canon-compliant up to the end of aou, then diverges from what the actual civil war movie will probably involve. I wanted to see if I could write my own version - it's for me, really, but if you like it then great!! 
> 
> Anyway. This first chapter is sort of a prequel, really. I'll add tags and characters as I go along, probably, because I always forget tags and warnings unless they're fresh in my mind!!
> 
> Thank you to ppl on twitter for putting up with me going on and on and _on_ about this fic, and especially shoutout to @queerwirt who helped come up with the plot of this fic like, about 6 months ago. You're the MVP pls never change!! 
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoy!! And if not ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ nevermind, I had fun writing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I probably covered it in the summary. This fic is canon-compliant up to the end of aou, then diverges from what the actual civil war movie will probably involve. I wanted to see if I could write my own version - it's just for me, really, but if you like it then great!!
> 
> Anyway. This first bit is sort of a prequel, really. Be aware that Bucky isn't really mentally stable in this first chapter. I'll add tags and characters as I go along, probably, because I always forget tags and warnings unless they're fresh in my mind!!
> 
> Thank you to ppl on twitter for putting up with me going on and on and on about this fic, keeping me inspired and writing. Please never change. 
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoy!! And if not ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ never mind, I had fun writing it.

OCTOBER 2015

He is unconscious and then he is awake, just like that. There are no alarms because he doesn’t like to be startled – but he wakes up like clockwork anyway. He isn’t clockwork, and he isn’t a machine, though. Just his body. _Semantics._

He looks out of the window for a few moments, remembering who he is; the date, the time, how he got there. He remembers Zola and he remembers Pierce and he remembers Hydra. He also remembers Steve Rogers, and feels guilty that he didn’t remember him first, and before the others. He takes a deep breath in, calming the frantic pace of his breathing during sleep. He lets it out as he thinks about Steve Rogers a little more, to centre himself. _His way out._

His lips curl upwards with a concerted effort. He needs to make things that make him happy show on his face, now, because it unsettles people when he doesn’t. He knows this from experience - from shopping in disguise at convenience stores, to threatening lives on covert missions. He just hopes he has enough experience; he hopes he’s _ready._

He hopes that everything they suppressed in him can come to the surface, again, as it did on the helicarrier. He’s been chasing that feeling ever since, but he can never quite catch up to it. He thinks maybe it relies on context: he has to be with Steve Rogers, _with a friend_ , if he wants to remember. He needs his help, in that respect, and others. He doesn’t care about much else. 

He looks at the pictures pinned to the wall. He looks at the collage of photographs and headlines on the desk. Steve Rogers can’t quite catch up to him, either. Today’s the day, though. _Today is the day._

He gets up, and strides to the bathroom. He knows it is six o’clock in the evening and he knows from looking out the window that the sun is setting on the scene near the base he has located, from shaky memories and clues in documents he has stolen, outside of Portland. 

He switches the bathroom light on and it flickers like the small, unfanned flame in his chest at the thought of seeing Steve Rogers today. He’s confronted by a picture of himself - silent, still, smiling, staring back at him. It’s attached to the mirror, which shows him an equally still version of himself. Grounded, for now, he sets about his daily affirmations. 

He reaches out with his left hand, and plucks the picture from the corner of the mirror: the young man in the picture is James Buchanan Barnes, and he smiles back at his future self because he has no idea.

Something tells Bucky his siblings were named after presidents, too. He doesn’t know what they would think of him, now. He doesn’t know what the mother who held him when he cried or the father who taught him how to shave would think of him. 

He doesn’t even know if those memories are real – he knows the ones of Steve Rogers are real though. He knows that, unfathomably, despite everything, Steve Rogers still cares about him, in one way or another. 

Steve Rogers is still looking for him and today he will find him. He will find Bucky Barnes, who will look a bit more like Bucky Barnes than he did yesterday. 

He takes up the beard trimmer and he turns it on: the mechanical noise of it covers the sound of his cybernetic arm extending to tuck the fresh-faced picture he tore out of a book in a library on the other side of the country back behind the corner of the mirror. 

His parents are dead, and his siblings are scattered; he thinks they're gone, too. But he’s still here and that has to count for something. Inevitably, that something will be _destruction_ , but at least now he has set his sights on destroying something unspeakably evil – not himself, either. Not now. He’s moved past that, he reckons. 

He starts shearing the beard away, cutting off the small mass of hair and letting it fall silently into the sink. He doesn’t hear the sound of the clippers over his own affirmations, which he recites in his head, over and over. 

_My name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Born March 10th, 1917, the oldest of four._

The mechanical sound of the clippers sounds vaguely like a saw: repetitive, sharp, able to cut into him at a second’s notice. _Designed_ to do damage to his body. But they can’t hurt his substance. 

Finally, he sets the clippers down, but their drone carries on in his head for a few moments more; he clings onto the sides of the sink, and stops himself from swaying, as he centres himself again, just like before. Finally, he looks up, and at his face, again: some stubble. Not a clean shave – he’d need a straight-razor, or – or a razor blade, at least. He has one but he doesn’t want to use it on his face. 

He stares at himself and thinks, _I am James Buchanan Barnes. I was brainwashed by Hydra. I was their weapon for seven decades. Steve Rogers is my friend. I am Bucky. Til the end of the line._

He looks back down at the clippers, and thinks about taking them to his head of hair: it’s a little long, for him, but he doesn’t think he wants to lose the length. When he was frozen, it grew: the length, now, is evidence of the years that he suffered. They only cut it once a decade. 

_This hair suffered with me. This hair grew and flourished even when I didn’t, and when I wasn’t free._

It’s counter-productive for a sniper to have long hair. He doesn’t know why they kept it on him when they could have shaved his head and he wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it. But he has some theories. 

He shakes himself, and blinks hard, taking up a knife from the bag of weapons he keeps with him in the bathroom, when his mind travels down that particular rabbit hole. He doesn’t want to think those thoughts, and they disappear, running away from him until he can’t even grasp at them, though he knows they were there, just seconds ago. He smirks, just for a second, thinking to himself, _guess they’ll come back, in time. Maybe in therapy._

The smirk is soon gone. He frowns again, looking back at himself in the mirror. He gathers up his hair and cuts a couple of inches off it, dropping the cut locks into the sink and inspecting the damage. Good. 

_Hair ties._ He ties his hair back, to keep it out of the way, when he’s fighting: sure, it makes him more recognisable, but that’s actually a tactical advantage, with what he’s been doing. 

He’s not worried about ‘recognisable’. The press haven’t found him - they aren't sure he's real - and Steve Rogers hasn’t found him, yet. He wears the same outfit every time, but they never catch him. And if they do, and put him down, he doesn’t care – today is the day, and he’s reached it, and it’s here. After today, he doesn’t care what happens. 

It’s the last base, and it’s the one he’s going to allow Steve Rogers to catch him at. He’s going to allow himself to be caught, after his job is done. Steve Rogers is his friend – and what better way to be caught than by a friend? 

_What better way to die, than beside a friend? Or for one?_

The sides of his mouth pull up, both at once: it happens slowly – because that thought made him happy – and without much effort. _That’s new._

But after a few seconds, his brow furrows, and his eyes are red, and he finds it all too hard to process. He lets his face slacken; he bites his lip, and thinks that this feeling of conflict is a lot more real than happiness, anyway. He’s never experienced true happiness, since he’s been free, anyway – he only has the hazy memory of it from a long, _long_ time ago. 

So true happiness might as well be fake; a fairy-tale. He hopes it isn’t though. He has to believe he can find it again. Because he wants to give it to Steve Rogers, if he still has the power to do that. He thinks it might be too late, though – unless catching him will make Steve happy. He hopes it will. 

He looks down, to where he prepared his usual attire, before he went to sleep: carefully, he takes up the black paint. He scoops some of it up, and smears it onto the skin around his eyes, and it’s not really _paint_ – it's not like Steve Rogers used to use, when he was an artist; it's not like the painters whose work he half-remembers seeing with Steve (when he couldn’t afford admittance to exhibits on his own) ever used – it’s dusty.

He smudges it under his eyes, practised by now: he used to do this for himself as a matter of procedure, when he was working for Hydra. Well – working for implies a wage, and a choice. He had neither, and that’s something he’s still coming to terms with. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get over what they did to him, and he doesn’t know that he can contain and control his anger, but he has to try. At least for one more day. Then he doesn’t mind what happens to him. 

As long as Hydra never get him back. As long as Steve Rogers is safe, from them, and from him. 

He closes his eyes, smearing the paint over them, making sure the coverage around his eyes is absolute: when he opens his eyes, he is a monster, and a spectre, and a shadow, and a _warrior_. He enjoys looking like this, because it gives him carte blanche to be what he was made for. 

_My name is James Buchanan Barnes and they did not make me. I was already whole and they changed me. I am strong enough to change back._

Finally, he reaches for the mask: it protects his face and it used to hide his identity. On the contrary, nowadays, everyone knows who lies behind this particular mask: everyone except him, until the past few months, which he’s spent relearning everything about himself – and about Steve Rogers – as he’s systematically taken apart every single base, team, and _human_ who was responsible for his suffering, and for Steve’s. 

Now, the sight of the mask lets them know he is coming: it lets them know he is here for them, to exact his revenge, and no one will get out alive. 

He has no eyewear, anymore – shot out by the Black Widow – but no one is as good a shot as her, anymore. They don't make agents like her, anymore. 

He stares at himself, bare-chested with his scars visible, but with his mask on, and he thinks that this is the bare bones of all he is: a man, made machine, made monster. He seeks to reverse the process – but not before he’s used his monstrousness on his creators. 

He glances out to the room, and to his uniform, each item of which is arranged neatly on the floor in the order that he will put them on. Most other things – not including the picture of James Buchanan Barnes from the corner of the mirror, which he will tuck into his duffel bag, along with his stash of weapons – can stay here until the motel manager clears them out. Hopefully it will all be destroyed. Where he’s going he will not need any of it anymore. 

Finally, he looks down at the razor on the sink. He stares at it and he wonders. 

-

“Damage report,” 

There’s no better way to get into a base than to be captured: this is what he’s learned at great length. He’s destroyed enough bases to know that, by now. He knew, this time, to stow his weapons in a dumpster on the outside of the building, before surrendering himself. Working without weapons has been – and _is_ – more challenging, but it’s nothing he hasn’t been trained to overcome. 

He was caught once or twice, that he remembers, by enemy forces, during his time as the Winter Soldier: he remembers his arm being removed, and his neural implant being inspected; the enemy’s attempts at removing that, too, and at interrogating and torturing him. He didn’t react – at all. And then he killed them all, before reporting back to his handlers. 

He plans to do something similar, now – but without the part about returning to his handlers. He will be returning to the custody of someone on the other side of the war; the other side of the coin that’s the currency of his life, however outdated. 

So he stowed the weapons. And then he walked with his hands on his head, right up to the front door. He knelt and he waited 17 seconds until he was being told, superfluously, to freeze. He kept his expression carefully neutral – vacant, even. It’s what they expect of him.  
But they won’t put him down in broad daylight, no matter how far away the base is from the city. That’s what he’s counting on, and he’s not wrong. He’s played them so many times, now. Just like they manipulated him constantly for seventy years. It doesn’t even feel like he’s begun to dole out retribution, even though he’s killed countless hydra personnel in his grim task to date. 

But this is the last one. He’s checked ceaselessly. It’s the last of them. 

He sits in the chair he’s been pushed into and waits. He knows that, by now, the equipment which they used to maintain him will have been junked – if it was even present at this facility to begin with. It wasn’t everywhere he went. He recalls being immobilised, his eyes pried open, and forced to watch propaganda, and information reels about his targets, when the chair and the electroconvulsive treatment were not available. 

He supposes that’s what they will try and do to him next. The apparatus for the Faustus procedure is something he’s found to be pretty much unanimous, during his lengthy surveillance of Hydra facilities. 

The upshot of this is that they have removed his left arm, as he knew they would. Given that they don’t have the chair, they can’t hope to immobilise it. The scientists here didn’t seem to know what they were doing with it, but he supposes their thought process was that they just wanted to make him more helpless. They didn’t have a hope in hell. 

He mentally assesses himself: his right arm is intact and unharmed despite being twisted painfully behind his back during the quick and dirty procedure of removing his left arm. His left arm, bereft as it is of a forelimb and a lot of the upper arm, still has the in-built mechanisms for his prosthesis' attachment present. The part that is permanently fused to his shoulder blade, collarbone, and ribs remains undamaged and attached. 

They stripped him of the mask; the few weapons he kept with him for appearances; the jacket he has tailor-made for himself from the remnants of his old uniform, and from several other combat-ready army surplus garments. All black, but with fewer unnecessary attachments and fastenings. More anonymous, and harder to trace, given the large number of contributing manufacturers. They even took his hairs ties – mostly because they wanted be thorough, rather than thinking he can do any damage with them, he thinks. _Mostly because they are scared._

He remains, now, in the black combat trousers and knee pads they usually equip him with; black boots; a black t-shirt, standard issue for prisoners. He has a collection of them in his supplies, back at the motel. They are his trophies because they show that he survived. They show that he broke free and outlived everyone who sought to imprison him. 

They have restrained him by cuffing his right hand to the table. They will not realise this is inadequate until it is too late. 

“I said, _damage report_ ,”

He knows how to act, now: he’s seen enough reactions to his act to know where to draw the line between _completely and uselessly checked out_ , and _overly defiant and cognizant_. He stole some footage of himself from during his time with Hydra, a while back, during his first Hydra base raid; it took him until right after his third raid to watch it. He regretted being unable to get drunk, that night. 

But they were helpful, in showing him how to act. He begrudges that he had to suffer, and watch the videos, to achieve his revenge. It’s a similar sentiment to how he feels about what he's experienced, in his life: it's made him so strong, and tough, and deadly, but at such a huge price. He can’t bring himself to ask whether or not it was all worth it; whether or not he deserves to be alive – or whether he deserved to die, and rest in peace. 

After a period of time his previous raids and the evidential videos have told him is _just right_ , he blinks. He furrows his brow a little, his mouth hanging slightly open, his lips parted – it’s much easier to act vacant during this situation, than to express happiness, with a smile, in his everyday life, he always finds.

His eyes roll slowly upwards to the man in front of him: he’s already snuck a small look at him, and he knows who he is, as a result of the comprehensive research he conducted before this mission. Kyle Green. Donor to several extreme right-wing movements in his youth, but ultimately cleared to work for SHIELD - probably by Pierce's men. He was working for Hydra all along: his great uncle had been a part of Zola’s entourage, and even had connections to Department X, at the time when Bucky was being erased and modified, over and over and over again. The apple, while several generations away, didn’t fall far from the Nazi tree, he thinks. 

“/I am unharmed/,” He answers in perfect Russian, if a little quietly. He knows the script.  
“In English, Winter Soldier,” Green says, the beginnings of a sneer forming on his face.  
“I am unharmed,” He answers again after a beat.  
“I’m not talking about _you_. I mean the damage you’ve caused to our organisation. All the work we’ve done – gone, because of you. I’m sure secretary Pierce used to . . . _Stroke your ego_ , or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Tell you it was _you_ that achieved it all, make you feel all warm and fuzzy,” 

Bucky retains his vaguely confused expression, remaining completely still, his eyes tracking Green’s face with practised vacancy. It’s almost laughable, how much his work has damaged Hydra. And yet they still let him in; still believe they can go back to taming him – even after Steve Rogers threw the switch it his head that meant he would never, ever go back to being their weapon, as long as he lived. Not if he had anything to say about it. 

“We don’t know for sure that you did it, because whoever did it left no trace. That’s the official word, anyway. But _I_ know you did it. And I’m going to have you punished accordingly, while we rebuild. Cut off one head, and two more shall take its place,”  
“Two more shall take its place,” Bucky mutters forlornly, like an echo. Green’s expression grows even more derisive, in response.  
“You’re pathetic. They told me you’d be more dangerous. I don’t know what they did with you at the other facilities, but trust me, you piece of shit – it’s gonna look like luxury, compared to how your life’s gonna be while you’re here,” 

Bucky shuts his mouth slowly, and feigns nervous behaviour: swallowing like his mouth is dry, frowning harder like he’s considering his maltreatment, these past seven decades. In reality, he _is_ thinking of those unspeakably awful years – but they don’t cause him fear. They fan the fire of rage in his belly. 

“I am ready to comply now,” Bucky says in a small, shaky voice. _That's it_ , he thinks to himself, before wondering if it’s sort of fucked up to be proud of himself, for mimicking a horrible version of himself that he still hasn’t fully gotten over, yet. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Green asks, a sadistic smile spreading across his face.  
“I am ready to comply,” Bucky repeats, his eyes large and staring down at the table between them.  
“Too easy. You need an extra few days of _conditioning_. I’ll tell them you resisted. I told them not to watch this interview, and they’re going to believe my word over yours anyway. No one's watching,” Green says, cracking his knuckles. Bucky feigns a flinch at the sound of it.  
“I am ready to comply,”  
“Shut-” Green’s thick, sausage-like fingers dart forward, and he stands up, grabbing a handful of Bucky’s shaggy hair, and wrenching his head upwards, until he has to look into his eyes. “-the fuck up,” He finishes, punctuating each of his words with a sharp tug on Bucky’s hair. He grunts, just like he would’ve back during his years spent alternating between foggy mechanical thoughts, stasis, and acts of mind-numbing, obedient violence. He barely feels the pain in his scalp, now, though. 

His tolerance for pain is much higher than Green expects: if he didn't already know that Green had never met him before, he’s been given many clues. The inadequate restraints. The incorrect judgement about his pain threshold. The way the others here missed his neural implant, linking him to his arm. The fact Green insisted on the interview not being surveyed. The fact he chose to come in here alone. Due to the fact that all other Hydra bases were destroyed, and Department X largely only kept hard-copies of the specs for the Winter Soldier project (a remnant of the Cold War era of intel), clearly, the employees at this base weren't warned about _everything_ he is; everything he can do, and how much of it he is willing to do to them. They only have a basic file, obviously. 

He releases Bucky, shoving him back into his seat so hard it rocks backwards momentarily. He sits back down in the chair opposite him, breathing heavily with the small exertion. 

“If I say you resisted, I can get away with pretty much any injury. You won’t be needed in active duty for a long time, anyway. And I’ve heard you heal fast. Fucking freak,” 

“. . . Where is my arm?” Bucky asks, pretending as if he didn’t hear Green’s threats (empty though he knows they’ll turn out to be). Green smirks, sitting back in his seat, and folding his arms. Bucky knows his type: aggressive by nature, forced into a suit, and getting on in years. Wants to do more damage than he can. An easy target. 

“You’re not getting it back. You’re gonna be a cripple til we see that you can behave,”  
Bucky pauses for a second, his eyes rolling down to the floor, before he asks again, like a broken record:  
“Where is my arm?”  
“It’s with RND, in the basement. They’re going to reverse engineer something for us that’s going to make Iron Man look like a Walkman,”  
". . . A Walkman,” Bucky says, echoing him again, to piss him off. 

He’s not wrong. Green grows redder, and his sneer intensifies.  
“God, you’re like a fucking antique. Maybe I’ll sell you to a museum . . . Maybe you belong in a zoo,” 

_Like you have clearance to do that_ , Bucky thinks to himself, but keeps his face blank, and his gaze dull. 

“Where is my arm?” Bucky asks again, and Green lunges forward again, clearly possessing the shortest of tempers. That makes Bucky’s job easier. 

He grabs Bucky’s collar, tugging it so they’re face to face: Bucky maintains a careful expression of mild surprise on his face, as Green growls at him:  
“I fucking told you. RND. You’re not getting it back,”

“. . . Oh,” Bucky says, and looks down for a second, before looking Green directly in the eyes. His wide eyes narrow, and a smirk of his own grows on his face: “That’s okay. I don’t need it to kick your ass,” 

Before Green can even realise what’s going on, Bucky starts forward and headbutts him; as he falls backwards, Bucky wrenches his wrist from the table so hard that it shakes where it’s bolted to the floor, breaking the chain in an instant. He rounds the table, booting Green in the head when he tries to get up and defend himself. He kneels down by Green’s side; notices him try and go for his walkie-talkie – or perhaps for his taser – and puts a stop to that by kneeling on his chest, and wrenching his arm from its socket with a twisting, jerking motion. 

Green, as he suspected he would, screams: the room, he knows, is soundproof, but he still looks to the door. Green writhes in agony like he hasn’t inflicted much worse on possibly hundreds of people before now. Bucky watches him idly, searching his pockets – difficult one-handed, but he’s practised daily tasks extensively with just his right hand, for moments just like this – he remembers when Steve Rogers dislocated his shoulder, too: although it hurt, ultimately, it was to save millions upon millions of people, and stop Hydra, so it was worth it. And so is this. This is more than worth it. He wishes he had more time to inflict harm on this disgusting human being. 

He fishes the handcuff key from Green’s pocket, unfastening it from his wrist with some difficulty, given that he has to do it with that same hand – but, again, he’s practised for this moment. He’s done this all before. _Just one last time._

He stands, listening to Green’s gasping breaths, and barely registering that he’s cursing his existence and calling him all sorts of names. He starts to talk about what he’s heard about Bucky – awful half-truths and myths he’s heard spewed from his handler’s mouths about the Winter Soldier, and what Hydra have done to him. 

It’s not true. He’s found no records, so none of it is true. It’s a fiction used to keep him in line. _If it’s not in the records, it’s not true. Steve Rogers is in the records. Your relationship with him is the subject of a museum exhibit. That’s real. This isn’t._

He’s not really listening, anyway – in between grinding his foot into the shoulder joint he’s just damaged, he presses his fingers to the space behind his left ear that they didn’t check, where the neural implant that links him to his prosthesis is situated. He shuts his eyes, for a moment, and feels it pulse. He smirks to himself, and for a moment, focuses on the link between it and the arm. _Wireless. I fuckin’ love the future_ , he thinks, only part-sarcastically. 

He opens his eyes, and looks down: Green is trying to crawl away, dragging himself woozily to the door by the nails of his functional hand. Bucky kicks him in the head a couple more times, until he feels something give. If he lives, he’ll probably have to live as a _cripple_ , as he called Bucky, with the damage done to his arm. _One down._

He steps over Green’s body, carefully avoiding the spilled blood so he doesn’t leave any footprints. Glancing back at Green, he sees that he has a taser – good for one shot, but definitely not as useful as a gun. He leaves it, but swipes the keys to the interrogation room. He’ll procure a gun, on the way to where he’s been told his arm is. He usually does. 

He unlocks the door as quietly as possible, opening it a crack at first to check that he’s not going to be immediately detected: he sees two guards a little down the corridor from him, talking to one another, fingers on their triggers. _New or stupid. Maybe both_ , Bucky thinks, as he watches them fail to notice him. 

Slipping out silently, he approaches them as stealthily as he’s able to, with a determined expression: before they even register that he’s there, he’s pulled a knife from one of their belts, and slit the agent’s throat. He immediately uses him as a human shield against the other’s bullets, before throwing the dying body into him, causing him to stumble long enough for Bucky to embed the large, serrated knife in his skull. 

He hears voices, and he knows he hasn’t got long: he efficiently ransacks the bodies for guns, and ammunition, and a small knife that will fit in his limited pocket space along with the ammunition. He tucks one gun into the small of his back, and keeps the other in his hand. 

When they come, this time, he’s ready: he coolly shoots each agent that comes at him in the head, wasting no bullets and no time. He’s spent enough time taking out the trash, this past year. 

He continues to the stairwell, which, stupidly enough, is signposted. He stops at the top to shoot the agents that are waiting at the bottom, and making their way up and down the stairs: their bodies fall like dominoes, his plan falling faultlessly into place, as is usual; they clatter down the concrete and land in a pile at the bottom. He watches with an impassive expression. He doesn’t know that it would be okay to smile, at the sound of bones crunching, and last gasps. He realises he hasn’t felt this comfortable in a long, long time. 

Killing Hydra agents, on the run, at the heart of the action and in perpetual danger of being killed at any moment – _yes_. This is where Bucky Barnes belongs, now. He’ll almost be sad to see himself decommissioned, after this. 

But then he remembers the flashes of faces he habitually sees when he shuts his eyes to go to sleep. And he isn’t sorry anymore. He knows he deserves decommissioning. 

He needs to not do any more damage. 

He doesn’t let these thoughts pollute his mind, though, as he makes his way down to the basement. He doesn’t permit his mind to wander, during a mission – during all missions, bar one very important, recent one. The one that would have resulted in Steve’s death, if accomplished. The one he will never complete. 

He steps over the bodies and makes his way to RND, mentally hoping that his neural link to his prosthesis has done him proud, again. _Thanks, Hydra, for that unwanted brain surgery. Glad I could repay the fucking favour._

He presses his ear to the exit door, and listens: silence. No raised voices; no orders, and no alarms. Either they don’t know he’s coming, or have experienced technical difficulties today. It’s likely that his plan has succeeded. 

He takes a second to toss the pistol in his hand, and check the one stored at the small of his back; he puts it back momentarily, allowing him to grasp the door handle with his right hand. He half-hopes, half-knows he’s been successful. 

He pushes the door open quickly, his hand flying to his gun, ready to fight: but what he comes across is an empty corridor. He can hear shouting in the distance, and he knows what the cause is – he’d smirk, but this part always makes him feel queasy. 

Even the corridor is clinical white: tiles on the floor, glass all around, and lines of depressing white sodium bar lights on the ceiling. Lights like these showed him the full extent of the experiments being conducted on him, and lit his torture; tiles like these smashed his face, breaking his fall when he was shoved hard to the ground. Speakers like the ones he can see mounted on the ceiling kept him awake for days and days and _days_ at a time. You can’t cover both ears with one hand. 

It’s a long corridor, lined on either side with glass that shows him laboratories, the contents of which are almost certainly identical to the contents of his nightmares. He stealthily makes his way along the corridor and towards the sound of commotion, checking left and right as he goes, but the scientists that he supposes previously occupied both of the labs are gone: they’re either hiding, or they’ve gone to try and see what’s going on. 

Suddenly, the bright, white lights drop, and there are red flashing lights: an alarm sounds, shrill and surprising, causing him to jump and stumble off-balance. He bumps into the glass beside him, shaking his head and making sure not to discharge his weapon: when he looks up, he sees doors opening in front of him, and he straightens up as best he can, using his quick reflexes to dispatch the few agents who come at him from the doors. They drop dead, clattering to the floor, without even getting a shot off each. He takes a second to clear his head, calming himself down from being startled by the alarms, before continuing with the mission. 

He makes his way quicker, now, down to the end of the corridor: he can hear the intercom system playing out an automated message, saying there’s been a break-in on the 3rd floor. He knows, from his extensive research, that that’s the top floor: it’s not a large facility, and there aren’t many people that would want to come anywhere near it. 

_Steve’s here. Ahead of schedule. I suspected he wouldn’t arrive for another half an hour, based on previous missions. Perhaps he’s trying harder to catch me this time._

_He needn’t have. This is the last one. This is all I’m needed for. He can do whatever he wants with me after this._

When he finally reaches the end of the corridor, he rounds the corner and sees a large examination room, which is in a state of disarray: there’s blood spatter on the wall and bleeding bodies on the floor; there are tables upturned, pushed over by accident by people trying to flee, stumbled into with haste. The whole scene is bathed in red light, in reaction to the emergency situation the base is facing on the floors above. _They probably aren’t even aware of my escape, yet,_ he realises. 

In the centre of the room lies his left arm. Despite his grim surroundings – the blood, the bodies, and worst of all, the shining torture instruments and restraints that line the walls – he smirks. 

They shouldn’t have taken it from him. 

He kneels down beside the limb: it twitches with inaction, the fingers curling in on the palm, one by one. Just like his right hand, the ring and little fingers move in tandem. That was about the extent to which Hydra’s efforts to make the limb life-like, or inconspicuous, went, in recent years. 

He removes his shirt, glancing all around, and making sure he isn’t being watched: he hefts the over-heavy limb upwards, and allows the mechanisms to work to fasten it back to him. It takes a little stimulation from the neural implant, and he has to consciously think about it, but the mechanism that’s fused to his skin takes hold of the mechanism at the proximal part of the limb, and pulls it in. Just like a ball and socket joint. It works just as well as his wireless command to it to attack any outside influence that tried to interfere with it, while it wasn’t attached to him. 

He doesn’t take time to test the range of motion: he pulls his shirt back on quickly, ignoring the pull of his back muscles, which catch slightly as the limb readjusts, trying to find the most natural position. He massages the join under his shirt with his right hand, his left taking up his weapon, as it settles. 

He casts his gaze around: on the far side of the room is a stainless steel table covered with notes. They’re about his arm, he realises: they were going to reverse-engineer weapons from it; armour, or more prostheses, for further agents and, in all likelihood, further assets. He clenches his jaw, hating the idea that there could be others like him – just the idea of them doing this to someone else makes him feel his rage renewed, as if fresh; raw, like an open wound. 

He struggles to prevent his left hand from clenching; squeezing the trigger accidentally. He knows it’s a – well, not a _muscle memory_ , or even a _flesh memory_. A ghost, in the machine: left over from the agents and scientists the arm strangled and cut with nearby tools, before he arrived. 

He spots an older folder: it’s in almost pristine condition, rarely used at all, but still clearly old because the writing has faded and when he picks it up, and opens it, the smell that hits him is musty; dust springs from the untouched pages. It’s his file. 

Every facility so far has had a file like this: some thicker than others. This one has had no reason to consult their file on him, ever, until today; he’s never been here, and they haven’t had any reason to look up how to treat him, or the specs for his arm, or the finer points of his treatment, brainwashing, and subsequent exploitation. Or _deployment_ , as they’ve labelled it in the file. 

He can hear footsteps: voices, and grunting. _Agents in the corridor._

He drops the file, taking a defensive stance: the footsteps are speeding up, and getting closer, and there’s not enough time for him to plan an ambush at the door, picking them off as they enter the room. So he perfects his stance: left hand holding the gun, right coming up to support it (though it needs no support whatsoever), and body turned to the side so he’s less of a target. He takes a deep breath, breathing in the scent of the metal torture instruments, which mixes with the metallic scent of spilled blood. It’s a heady combination, he finds, as he focusses his unbroken attention on the door. 

He’s a better shot with his left hand, nowadays: they made sure he was a perfect marksman with both arms, but his left arm doesn’t shake nearly as much as his right. Not with adrenaline, and not with post-traumatic stress. 

Bucky’s left index finger flexes slightly on the trigger. He glances at his left hand; at the inscription he carved onto the wrist panels before he left his motel room, and his life on the run, behind. 

He was born for this. _Created_ for it. And he can’t back down now. He won’t stand down until it’s over. 

His schedule is wrong – he knows it’s wrong already because of the security threat upstairs – he thinks that Steve has come straight for him, knowing he’ll be in the basement; knowing he’ll be collecting his arm. He must have worked out his modus operandi from the wreckage he left at the other bases. But that rationalisation – and all the hours he’s wasted thinking about surrendering, and seeing Steve, again – doesn’t help at all, when he sees his face. He almost squeezes the trigger, when he goes rigid; his breath catches, when he tries to breathe out. 

Steve’s face was red last time he saw it, too: red with the proximity of his blood vessels to the skin of his face. Red with the blood, and bruising, that Bucky put there. This time, he is bathed red in the emergency lights. Bucky gulps back the urge to vomit that suddenly tries to take over. He won’t let it. 

Steve brings his shield up in front of him when he sees the gun – it’s nothing but a reflex, though; nothing more than Steve flinching, and bracing himself. Bucky waits for him to register who he’s staring at. 

When he does, he gapes, even though he must have known what he’d find down here – _who_ he'd find. He lets his shield drop to his side, despite the fact that Bucky hasn’t yet thought about lowering his weapon. His arms hang limply at his side, as he says,  
“. . . Bucky?” 

He recognises Bucky by the cut of his figure, though it’s more muscular than he remembers. He remembers him by the expression on his face, though it’s covered in black paint. He recognises him by his hair, even though it’s longer than when they were kids, and bathed in red light. None of that matters because Steve would know him blind. 

Standing to attention, like this, Steve can feel his presence in the room like he might've registered the presence of the solitary, creaking radiator in their old apartment: the one they could rarely afford to heat up, no matter how much he wanted to. The one that he and Bucky used to hunch next to, playing cards, or acting like artist and model; best friend and best friend, huddled together under blankets, when Steve was too sick to move. 

Steve still sees him as warmth, and hope, despite all of the ice that clings to him. What surprises Bucky is that he can read all that, in Steve’s expression: he can practically see Steve’s thoughts, laid out like a map, for him. He’s not experienced that, outside of a professional capacity – interrogations, and the like – in his living memory. 

He lowers his gun. 

“Steve,” He says, and swallows. He thinks that he probably looks about as scared as he was pretending to be, upstairs with Green. 

He watches Steve agonise over what to say, and do: he walks towards Bucky, steps deliberate, and slowly stows his shield on his back. Bucky’s finger itches on the trigger of his gun, at the proximity – he’s not used to being this close to people, without the intent to hurt them. 

“Have you cleared all the other floors?” Bucky asks, watching Steve’s body language carefully for lies, through force of habit, though he hasn’t lied to him yet: something tells him he’d be able to see any lies Steve might tell him, easy as reading a book, though. _He knows Steve_ , he reminds himself.  
“Yeah – me and Sam worked our way through them on our way down here. It was stealth and then – uh, then it _wasn’t_ ,” Steve says, a little too quickly. He pauses, before he adds, “You met Sam,”  
“Met,” Bucky says, a note of dark humour in his voice. A smile pulls at Steve’s mouth, but it looks like the ones Bucky’s practised in front of the mirror. Forced. Bucky won’t make eye contact.  
“You might have to apologise,” Steve points out. Bucky nods, agreeing so as to move the conversation along, and looks down at the floor.  
“And the perimeter?” He asks, after a beat.  
“Secure. We’ve got support on the ground, and the air,”  
“Army?” Bucky asks.  
“And air force,” Steve adds; he looks like he’s holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, as he watches Bucky’s face, clearly deep in thought, conducting some analysis or other. 

Obviously, Bucky thinks, they aren’t taking any chances with letting him get away. 

“Did you find my bag?”  
“Bag?” Steve asks, slightly confused; then he cuts through Bucky’s thoughts, with a slightly desperate-sounding, “Bucky – look at me,” 

But Bucky doesn’t. He shuts his mouth, realising he’s asked everything he can, and places his gun down on the workbench beside him. Slowly, he brings his hands to his head.  
“I’m ready to comply now,” He says, the phrase having been equated in his memory with surrender – of his freedom, and of all he is. He’s ready to give himself up, now. He’s ready to give it all up. 

Even in the red light, Steve goes white as a sheet – but Bucky doesn’t see, because he won’t look at Steve’s face, anymore, now that he knows the mission is over and they are secure in their victory. 

“What are you-” Steve asks, his voice sounding slightly hoarse; his eyes frantically searching Bucky for any clue as to what’s happening.  
“I am ready to comply,” Bucky repeats, trying to keep his voice from shaking. The end is stranger than he imagined it would be – it brings up more of a sensation inside him. More _emotion_ : more grief, and sadness, but also a feeling of completion and finality. Steve Rogers can kill him now. He has out-lived his usefulness and his friendship.  
“With what?” Steve asks, genuinely confused, and apprehensive for the answer.  
“Whatever you want,” He says, as if that explains everything. “You came here to get me. I’ve cleaned out all the Hydra bases. I’m no longer of use and I’m surrendering,” 

Steve’s gaping, again, his eyes surprised and anguished: he’s frozen to the spot, watching Bucky, hands on the back of his head, stare down at the floor. He doesn’t look scared, but he looks emotional: it’s not overt, on his face, but it’s easy for Steve to detect, in comparison to the carefully blank expression he’s just seen on Bucky’s face. 

“This is – that isn’t – _Buck_ ,” He says, reaching up slightly; Bucky doesn’t flinch away because he’s sure that whatever’s coming next is what he deserves. Steve Rogers is a just man. He’ll give him what he deserves.  
But he isn’t expecting Steve to take his wrists, as gently as possible, and bring them down from his head: he watches Steve manipulate his limbs, bringing them down so they’re in front of him; caught between him and Steve, with Steve now holding his hands. He doesn’t make a distinction between flesh, and prosthesis; he doesn’t seem to care that the same hands beat his face until it was bruised and beaten and misshapen. He doesn’t care about anything other than getting Bucky to look at him. 

“Hey – hey,” He says, moving so he’s in Bucky’s line of sight, and catching his eyes. “That’s it. Look at me,” He murmurs. The red lights flashing around them make it harder for Bucky to make out Steve’s face – but even with the aggressive hue of the lights, Bucky can see that Steve’s expression is nothing but gentle. It’s one of care, and relief, and even tinted with a hint of _desperation_. He’s harbouring positive emotions for Bucky. Bucky finds that hard to compute. 

“We didn’t come here for you – we came here for the base,” Steve tells him quietly, his voice as soft as he can make it, trying not to spook Bucky.  
“But you knew I’d be here,” Bucky reasons, biting his lip. He finds it’s starting to shake. He didn’t make that happen.  
“. . . I hoped you would,” Steve says. Bucky nods once – Steve quickly adds, “Not to – not to _capture_ you. To bring you home . . . As my friend,” Steve clarifies. 

Bucky blinks hard, clearing his somehow-blurry eyes. They’re over-wide, betraying his confusion.  
“But I’m not your friend,” He says, as if it’s obvious. 

Steve pauses, frozen like a deer in the headlights. For a second, Bucky thinks he isn’t even going to try and deny it; for a second, he thinks that his dreams about Steve handing him in, getting him sent to prison, and never wanting to see him again, are going to be realised. He thinks he’ll have to live out that dull, grey existence, alone with what he’s done, as a punishment for every life he took; everyone he hurt, and everything he’s ruined. 

_How can he be Steve’s friend, with everything he’s done?_ Steve would never be friends with someone like him. Who could stand to be around a monster, like him? Someone so dead inside, and bereft of any chance of redemption? 

But then Steve squeezes his hands tighter. 

“You are. You know me,” Steve says, with an expression of determination.  
“. . . I didn’t before. I didn’t know you, and I hurt you. I hurt people,” Bucky says, explaining it – he thinks for a moment that Steve has forgotten. He never considered that SHIELD might make Steve forget things, too. He’s horrified at the thought, his face draining of colour. “I killed people,” He reiterates. 

Steve shakes his head. “It wasn’t you,”  
“My hands. My work,” Bucky insists. He finds that his flesh hand is starting to shake, the stress and the adrenaline of the situation bringing out a physical reaction.  
“But not your choice,” Steve says. Bucky opens his mouth to reply to that, but finds that he can’t – he can’t disagree. It wasn’t his choice. He’d have chosen differently. He’d have chosen the opposite of everything Hydra wanted. He’d have chosen to defy them, for his own sake – and that of the entire world. Possibly more importantly, for Steve. 

“No matter what you’ve done – what they made you do . . . You’re still my friend,” Steve assures him.  
“. . . I know you,” Bucky echoes.  
“Sure,” Steve says, smiling through his troubled thoughts.  
“I know you,” Bucky repeats, sounding more certain this time. He nods slowly.  
“. . . You want to leave with us?” 

Bucky looks down at their hands: Steve’s touch is just so gentle, it’s going to destroy him, he thinks. Even with the leather of his gloves blocking most of the skin-on-skin contact Bucky’s right hand is afforded, he can feel that despite being rough from too many decades of fighting too many wars, they’re still soft, in their intent, at least. They mean him no harm, and neither does Steve. The fact he had to hurt Bucky in the past – the fact Bucky shot him, almost killing him – the fact Bucky abandoned him to win the war on his own . . . Water under the bridge. 

Steve doesn’t care. Bucky can see in his desperate eyes that he just wants him back. He thinks Bucky deserves to be back with him. 

Bucky doesn’t think he deserves Steve. And he doesn’t think Steve deserves the harm that he could inflict on him; doesn’t think he should have to bear living with a man who isn’t quite his best friend anymore, who tried to hurt him, and who suffers daily from ailments that he thinks even time cannot hope to cure. 

Steve doesn’t deserve that. Bucky doesn’t know if Steve knows everything that’s going on with him – but then again, he doesn’t appear to care. 

He doesn’t deserve it. But he wants it. So Bucky will give it to him, and hope for the best. He spent too many years without hope not to try, now. 

So he looks up and into Steve’s eyes, fixing him with the full intensity of his gaze: his mouth pulls up at the corners, even though he can feel a tight pressure in his chest that feels as if it’s blocking his throat, and his eyes are hot and blurry. He smiles because he doesn’t want to be weak. He smiles because this is what he wants, but he’s almost too scared to accept it. Being incarcerated would have been less scary than this. 

But he’s taught himself to overcome his fears: he’s walked into the lion’s den, over and over, to take Hydra down. Somehow, the prospect of accepting Steve’s help, and his affection, is scarier. 

All the same, he confirms that he wants to be with Steve with a couple of words that coax a shaky breath and a watery smile from Captain America:  
“. . . Yeah, Steve. I want to go with you,” 

Of course, he means _always. Just like before, and from now on._

-

It’s much easier to leave the lab than it was to get there, for a number of reasons: this time, there are no Hydra agents coming at them, given that they’ve been cleared out already. Bucky’s got two arms, this time, as well: he finds it comforting to hold a gun in each hand, just in case. 

And this time, he’s got Steve. It never occurred to him that he’d be walking out of the facility with Steve as his friend, rather than his captor, though. Despite the fact that Steve almost got himself killed for him last time, it didn’t occur to him that he’d still want him: he thought Steve would have changed his mind, by now; come to his senses. 

But as he looks to Steve, striding along beside him with confidence, sneaking looks at Bucky when he thinks he isn’t looking . . . Bucky gets the feeling that Steve doesn’t have much common sense. At least, not when it comes to him. He’s too stubborn and he’s too attached. Great qualities for a soldier whose only interest in protecting his fellow soldier – not great for a spy, though. 

Bucky hasn’t considered his stance on loyalty. He wasn’t _loyal_ to Hydra: he didn’t have a conscious opinion, for the longest time. But – well, he _did_ pull Steve from the Potomac; that was the first choice he consciously made in seven decades. Perhaps that’s loyalty. Even if he basically put him there, in the first place. 

He sharply looks ahead of them, when Steve turns his head. They don’t look at each other at the same time. For Bucky, it’s because he doesn’t know how to proceed – _how close is too close, between him and Steve? How much is Steve ready for? How much feels right?_ – for Steve, it’s because he doesn’t want to spook Bucky, it’s clear as day. Bucky wants to tell him he’s not made of glass. He’s used to being stared at. 

This is going to be tricky to relearn, Bucky thinks, as he puts one foot in front of the other, covering Steve’s flank. 

Suddenly, they’re accosted from the left: Bucky raises his weapons at once, fingers itching on the triggers of his guns – Steve tenses, and quickly says, “Stop!” 

Luckily for him, Bucky’s as good at not pulling triggers as he is at pulling them.  
“Do you remember Sam?” Steve asks cautiously, as Bucky stares at the man who just appeared from the doorway beside them. He’s got his hands up, and he’s looking to Steve for reassurance.  
“. . . With the wings,” Bucky says, looking Sam up and down; clearly searching for the wings.  
“Not in here, but yeah,” Sam answers. “The floor’s clear. I made sure – the others will be in to clear up,”  
“Great. Thank you,” Steve says, his voice sincere and his expression, Bucky notes, full of trust. Sam is more than an ally. He is Steve’s _friend_. 

Bucky nods slowly, lowering his weapons. He notices Sam carrying something. 

“My bag,” Bucky says.  
“This is yours?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised. “I found it on my way down here, on the outside. You make a habit of storing things in dumpsters?”  
“No one usually checks them,” Bucky says. His arms hang limply by his sides, and he’s unsure how to stand. He thinks his usual posture might make people uncomfortable. He notices, though, that Sam has a similar posture right now: military, to attention, spine straight. 

“Yeah, well. I’m new to this spy crap, but I’ve seen a lot of cop shows,” Sam says. There’s a pause, as he looks down at the bag warily. “. . . You’ve got enough weapons for an army in here,” He says, shifting the strap on his shoulder.  
“You looked inside?” Bucky asks, voice demanding, alarmed.  
“I didn’t take anything,” Sam says, holding out a placatory hand. “Just had a quick look to make sure it was safe . . . Well, not a bomb, anyway,” He adds more quietly, realising how strange it sounds to call a bag full of weapons ‘safe’. 

Sam looks from the bag to Steve, a silent question in his eyes: smart, Bucky thinks. Steve has had more contact with Bucky; he’s in a better position to be able to tell whether or not Bucky can be trusted with a bag full of weapons. 

Bucky feels a rush of unidentified emotion swell inside of him, as he looks from Steve to Sam: _I’m glad Steve’s surrounded himself with allies. I’m glad he’s with people he can trust. Smart people. I’m glad._

He doesn’t know why he feels so bitter, then: after all, the Howling Commandos were Steve’s support network during the war – and Peggy, and Howard, and Colonel Philips. They helped him, and so did Bucky. 

But then he fell. And Steve moved on. And he was left behind. 

He gets the overwhelming feeling that he should have stayed that way. He didn’t die, when he was supposed to. He didn’t die for Steve. That’s where his life went wrong. 

“Bucky?” 

He looks up sharply: Sam’s holding the bag up, and towards him. He looks from Steve, to Sam, to the bag.  
“You okay?” Steve asks cautiously.  
“Fine,” Bucky says. He sniffs.  
“What are you looking at?” Steve asks, frowning. 

Bucky realises he’s been staring down at his left wrist for a minute, or so. He completely zoned out.  
“Nothing,” He says, holstering one of his weapons and grabbing the bag. Despite his bitter thoughts, he looks up, and fixes Sam with a sincere expression that takes a lot of concentration: he makes eye contact, as he says:  
“Thank you, Sam,” He’s sure to use Sam’s name. People feel more at ease, that way. 

“No problem, uh . . . What do we call you?” Sam asks, obviously trying his best to tread lightly. Steve turns to Bucky, eyebrows raised – clearly, that’s a question he wants the answer to, too. The weight of expectation he feels at that moment is almost physical, to him. 

Bucky just blinks at him, his expression remaining neutral. His right arm starts to shake, but he ignores it. 

“We should go,” 

-

They leave the same way Bucky came: through the front door. Steve assures him, more than once, that everyone in the facility has been taken care of. Bucky doesn’t know how he can be sure, but he trusts him. He doesn’t think Steve would lie to him. He doesn’t know if Steve can. It wouldn’t fit with the memories he’s pieced together – the carefully-constructed understanding, in his head, of who Steve is; who he himself is, too. The two seem intrinsically intertwined, given that Steve was the only thing to give him pause; to make him stop, and think, and start fighting again. 

He fought so much. He lost over, and over, and over. He knows that much. But then Steve came – it didn’t mean he won the fight: in fact, it hurt him more. But he believes he’ll get better, one day. 

Steve glances down at Bucky’s weapons, as they approach the front door: Sam’s talking to some sort of team leader, via an earpiece, telling them that they’re about to make the rendezvous. Steve looks up from Bucky’s weapons, to his face – he grimaces, and opens his mouth, but doesn’t speak for a few seconds. 

“. . . They know there’s a chance you’re here – would you mind, uh . . . I don’t wanna tell you to disarm, Buck, but-”  
“Holster them. Got it,” Bucky says, acquiescing. They are about to meet with allies. It makes sense: but still, he itches with the need to feel a gun clasped in each hand; a rifle on his back. 

He shifts the bag on his shoulder, the weight of it grounding him. He realises only then that he was addressed as _Buck_ \- not just then, but before. He doesn’t know how to feel about it – he’s only just come to terms with _Bucky_. It’s strange. 

“Thanks,” Steve says. “Sam?”  
“They’ve got a quinjet waiting to take us back to the tower. Apparently Tony said he can’t afford to have us out in public like this any longer than _necessary_ ,” He adds, sounding annoyed. Steve frowns, looking equally annoyed – Bucky looks between them, thinking that he’s missing out.  
“Well if he decides to actually call us, we’ll tell him that decommissioning a terrorist facility on US soil and rescuing prisoners is pretty damn necessary,” Steve says, his expression stormy, as he stows his shield on his back. 

Bucky shoots him a doubtful expression. 

“. . . Not that you were a prisoner, or anything,” Steve adds, not wanting to offend him.  
“You make me sound like a damsel in distress,” Bucky says, though his delivery of the line is flat. Steve smiles, anyway – maybe it was more _deadpan_. Bucky smiles, just for a second. 

Sam brings up the rear, making sure they’re not ambushed by a rogue agent from behind, as they leave the building: Steve shades his eyes from the floodlights all around him; the airforce provide the illumination from above, and his face scrunches up with annoyance.

Bucky doesn’t squint, or allow his face to crumple: he’s trained to withstand this sort of thing. Reflexes, when they aren’t beneficial, are no use to a weapon: they’re only detrimental. His fingers twitch, grasping at weapons they can’t draw. 

“Freeze!” The three of them hear, from the left – the side Bucky’s standing on. He sees through the haze of lights, and watches as soldiers surround them, pointing their guns squarely at him. “Hands on your head!” They demand.  
Suddenly, the feeling that he’s being taken into custody returns at full force: it leaves him with a creeping sense of nausea, because now, rather than Steve taking him in, it could be these soldiers. He might never see Steve again. _What if Steve needs him?_

“Easy, son,” Steve says, stepping slightly in front of Bucky. “He’s with us,”  
“He’s a fugitive from the United States Government - isn't he?” The soldier who appears to be in charge of the squadron says to him. “We’ve been sent here-"  
“On my orders. You’ve helped a lot, but this is Avengers business,” Steve interrupts solemnly; Bucky just watches him, prying his eyes away from the weapons pointed at him before he acts on one of his more frequently indulged urges. 

The commander looks as if he’s going to say something – Sam chips in,  
“Hey, man. Don’t make us call Tony Stark. I don’t think the big guy’s ego could take it,” He says, indicating Steve. Steve glares at him for a second, before turning back to the commander. Bucky stands still as a statue. Steve can’t even see him breathing. 

“. . . At ease,” The commander says; Bucky relaxes, internally, now that their weapons aren’t trained on him. Outwardly, however, he doesn’t change his posture at all. But the commander isn’t done yet. 

“We’ll need to confiscate the bag,” He says, nodding to one of his soldiers to try and take it from Bucky. The man approaches him: he slows significantly when Bucky fixes him with the calculating glare of an assassin; the level of unfiltered, raw threat in his gaze is enough to make a trained man falter. But not stop completely, apparently.

“I need this,” Bucky says to Steve, barely muttering. 

Steve looks at him, and for a second, Bucky thinks he might ask why: he hopes he doesn’t. He’s unsure that he’d be able to answer. All the bag contains is his assorted weapons, a few items of clothing, and a few pictures he’s torn out of books. He thinks about the picture of the carefree James Buchanan Barnes, and tries to emulate his expression; one Steve trusts. He doesn’t want to manipulate Steve, but he needs his bag. He can’t decide if it counts as manipulation, if you’re only pretending to be yourself. 

“I checked it,” Sam says, trying to diffuse the situation. “It only contains Sergeant Barnes’ possessions,” He adds, not outright lying. “Right?” Sam prompts him.  
“Yes. Pictures and clothes,” Bucky says, almost too quiet for the commander to hear.  
“He’s sanctioned under my authority to travel with us to the Avengers tower. We’re on a tight schedule, commander,” Steve says, sounding so damn authoritative that Bucky questions any and all memories he has of a man who was nervous talking to women on a double date. 

_They went on a double date to the Stark Expo. The flying car malfunctioned. Steve was amazed. Bucky looked at him more than he looked at the car. The girls weren’t interested in Steve._

“Captain,” The commander says, saluting Steve. Steve nods his thanks, with a smile, and tells him,  
“Thanks for your help, soldier,"

With that, Steve makes his way to the quinjet: it’s had to land in a nearby parking lot, so it’s not far away from the building at all. But still, it’s almost invisible, under cover of darkness, not under one of the spotlights. 

“Thank you Sam,” Bucky says, yet again, after a beat, as they walk away.  
“Don’t sweat it. Just don’t make me regret this,” Sam says, his tone light, but the fact he’s questioning Bucky’s allegiance still obvious in his voice. Bucky thinks, yet again, that Sam is smart – clearly, he’s trusting Steve’s judgement, though. The two of them must be very close.

As they stand at the end of the ramp leading up to the quinjet, Bucky pauses: he frowns, looking into the ship, and experiencing a sense of deja-vu. He’s seen one of these crafts before. 

“What is it?” Steve asks, already ahead of him on the ramp. Sam progresses into the craft, going to talk to the pilot. 

Bucky shakes his head slightly: his eyes travel from the roof, to the floor; his left hand twitches, the fingers grasping. His right hand shakes. 

_A grenade. The door shut. Men trapped inside. A fireball._

“. . . Nothing. Memories,” Bucky says shortly, before striding past Steve, and standing off to one side, stiffly waiting to be told what to do. Steve approaches him, frowning slightly, before removing his shield and setting it down on one of the seats that line the walls. He sits down on the seat beside it, as the door shuts. 

Bucky remains standing. Steve’s frown deepens – he looks as if he’s waiting for permission. 

“You can sit down,” Steve says, watching Bucky carefully for his reaction. He sits down immediately, beside Steve. The seat right next to him. 

Steve straps himself in, so Bucky copies him. 

“You don’t have to wait for me to tell you what to do, Buck,” Steve comments, as he does so.  
“Yes I do,” Bucky says.  
“I’m not your . . . Commander, or anything. I’m your friend,”  
“. . . You said,” Bucky replies softly, gazing off into the cockpit, where Sam and the pilot are quietly discussing the best route back, to avoid major cities. It’s going to be a long flight, he suspects. 

Bucky pauses, taking a deep breath, but not saying anything yet: Steve looks to him, expecting him to speak. He’s used to scrutiny, but not this kind. It’s hard to say what he’s thinking, after so long being told he should never, ever do that. _Not unless it’s pertinent to the mission._

“. . . I’m used to a handler,”  
“I’m not your handler,” Steve denies.  
“You feel like it. I trust you,”  
“. . . I’m glad you trust me, but I don’t control you,”  
“Maybe you should,” Bucky says. “I don’t know how to behave,”  
“What do you mean?” Steve asks, not having seen anything particularly _off_ about Bucky, so far.  
“I don’t know when to speak. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what expressions to make. I don’t know how to stand,” Bucky lists. 

Steve doesn’t want to interrupt him, but it’s clear as day that he wants to object. 

“Bucky, you – you don’t have to act a certain way. You’ve been through a lot, and – well, as long as you’re not hurting anyone you shouldn’t be, no one minds,” Steve tells him, when he's finished.  
“But I’m different,” Bucky points out quickly. Steve goes to reply – but the words won’t come. He just sits there, mouth hanging open in thought, for a few seconds, as he processes that, and wonders what to say. 

“. . . We’re both different, Buck,” He says, “That’s normal – it’s been seven decades,”  
“Not for you,” Bucky says. 

Steve pauses again – he doesn’t like thinking about the ice. But Bucky might be the only one to understand that, he realises. 

“. . . Doesn’t matter how long it’s been. You’ve been through hell. But I’m glad to have you back, however you are,” Steve tells him, his voice sounding determined. This is a challenge, for him, Bucky knows: it would be for anyone. But Steve’s one of the only people dumb enough to try it anyway; to try and rehabilitate his friend, try and help him, at length, instead of handing him over to the authorities, for his crimes. Steve never could leave well enough alone. 

“You are different,” Bucky says. “You sound like a handler,” 

Steve barely knows how to respond to that, either. He wishes he’d thought this through more, before he came here: honestly, he didn’t believe he’d have Bucky here, with him. He thought, even with their arriving earlier to try and intercept him, that they’d miss him, again. Something tells him, though, that Bucky wanted to be caught this time. The way he behaved back in that lab . . . Like he was glad to see Steve again, but submissive; like Steve was just any old soldier. 

“. . . You haven’t had a friend in a long time, Buck. There’s a difference between a handler and a friend,” Steve points out. Bucky wants to deny it, knowing it’s not good not to have any friends, but he can’t – really, there’s just Steve. He’s glad he has Steve, at least. He hopes he’ll always have Steve. 

He can’t see Steve leaving him, now – not after he stayed with him, even when he could have died. Not when Steve is here with him, right now, instead of away with his new friends, letting Bucky rot in jail. 

Really, if he ever loses Steve, it’ll probably be his fault. It was the first time around. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, and pauses for a moment, before taking a deep breath: eventually, he lets it out. 

“I want to-” _Change. Forget. Relearn. Heal. Avenge._ “. . . I want to get better,” He says. Steve smiles softly .  
“We'll get you to people who want to help. There’s a whole team. I won’t let anyone hurt you, but I can’t help you all by myself,” Steve says, and he sounds as if he’s rehearsed the speech. Bucky wonders if these people have helped Steve, too. For a second, he considers whether or not Steve has been brainwashed. 

He blinks hard, and swallows. _No. Steve would never allow that to happen to himself – not like you did. Steve’s much stronger than you._

Bucky nods, and repeats, “I want to get better,” 

This time, he sounds as if he means it. Steve reaches out with his right hand, and Bucky takes it with his left: he grips Steve’s hand too tight, but he doesn’t mind. He's just happy to have Bucky with him, again. 

He's happy to be home. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said it would be weeks before I published another chapter but I realised that it would probably be better to publish this next one right away, because the first one was more of a prelude, and not very typical of the rest of the fic. 
> 
> This next chapter is set six months after the first one - I've skipped out on a portion of Bucky's recovery, because simply put I've explored it in other fics, it's definitely been done better by other people, and this fic is based on the civil war plotline - if I went through Bucky's whole recovery, it would probably end up being 200k words long, or something. That said, of course Bucky is still very much in recovery during this fic, as is about to become evident!! I'm not going to write a story where he's magically better, especially given the way I wrote him in the first chapter. Apologies if you're disappointed, anyway. 
> 
> Anyway. I mean it this time, _now_ there won't be any updates for a few weeks, while I get the fic finished. Thanks for your support so far!!

SIX MONTHS LATER

Bucky wakes with his eyes open. He was unaware and then he was staring right ahead of himself, the sheets stained an unsaturated grey by the early morning light let in through the open windows. Steve doesn’t really like the dark to be complete – reminds him too much of the time between the crash and the big freeze, he mentioned once at 3 am – so he won’t buy blackout blinds. It’s never completely dark, but Bucky likes it that way, too. 

His eyes stayed put on the wall for a little while, a snowstorm speckled with ash and smoke, damaged though it’s near new. They’ve plastered over Bucky’s harder times, but the tiny falls – the slips, the tumbles, the shrapnel – still litter this room. _What’s the point in plastering all of it, when he could kick off again at any time_ , he’d overheard someone say. But it helped motivate him. 

From what he's gathered, he used to care a lot about what people thought of him – now, he’d love to prove them all wrong, taking the same pride in his image that he did in the 40s, but his heart’s not in it. The furthest he’ll go is making himself presentable, in his body and his mind. But even then, there’s only one or two people he wants to impress. 

Steve. Steve, and Sam. 

Steve left early for a run with Sam. That was at 5 am, but Bucky didn’t wake until 6. Steve left a note, but Bucky still felt alone. He ignored it, and rationalised it to himself: _Steve wouldn’t leave me, just like that. He would always have a reason. You might not deserve him, but he’s always going to stay._

Dr. Franklin told him not to talk or think about what he ‘deserves’ so much, but he got caught up in the moment, and the intensity of the feeling of abandonment. He told himself to stop being stupid, because it's just a run, but again, telling himself he's stupid is something his doctor told him not to do, too – not a great start to the day. 

But today’s the day. So when Steve comes back home, Bucky looks up from the television, and he smiles, because he can forget his failures when Steve smiles back. And Steve does. 

“Good morning,” Steve says, always so formal when they don’t wake up side-by-side, as if something’s changed, or different. Usually it’s, _stop stealing the covers, asshole_ , or _what time is it?_ , or one of an assortment of curses, usually due to Bucky’s cold feet on his legs. 

That’s if he’s not looking up at Bucky, awake and staring into nothing, and softly asking, _was it the ice, or the chair? Something else?_

Steve looks to have showered already: his hair is sticking up in all directions, towel-dried, and he’s wearing the beginnings of his costume, holding the other parts in his hands. He makes his way over to where Bucky’s sitting at the kitchen table, and sits down beside him, starting to work on the straps. 

Bucky just nods in reply, when he’s sure Steve’s watching him. 

“Have you eaten?” Steve asks. Bucky considers the question for a moment, having genuinely forgotten. Eventually he signs. _Not yet._  
“Here,” Steve says, getting up and tossing an apple from his consciously well-stocked fruit bowl to Bucky. Acting on reflex, Bucky reaches out with his left hand, and catches it: he stares as the arm whirrs and clicks, bringing it closer to him. 

Steve looks impressed. “Very light touch. You didn’t damage it,” He observes, and Bucky feels himself sit slightly more upright with the praise; he can't help it, he likes making Steve happy, even in tiny ways like that. 

Steve pulls on one of his boots with some difficulty. The damn things are too tight on his calf muscles, Bucky notes – punk ‘ _doesn’t skip leg day_ ’, as Sam once remarked. He knows that, anyway, because he’s seen it first-hand. He and Steve have gone for full days without speaking out loud, at the gym. Sometimes it’s easier. 

Bucky bites into the apple, and eats mechanically, looking at the clock: he knows Steve is watching, though he’s pretending not to. He’s just worried. Bucky is too. 

“You don’t have to go. If you don’t want to talk – or if you just, don’t want to go,” Steve points out quietly, pulling on the other boot, and looking up at Bucky, concerned. Bucky shrugs.  
“They won’t make you talk,” Steve points out.  
“I know,” Bucky replies softly, his voice thick with disuse – the first words he’s said today. Steve smiles.  
“They’re excited to have you there. Especially Sam. I think he’s just glad to have someone else there to back him up – he’s always telling them not to call me ‘old man’,” Steve explains, as Bucky finishes his apple off in three large bites.  
“Only I’m allowed to do that,” He says, with a smirk.  
“Right. I guess you’re the authority on old,” Steve says. Bucky just makes a face at him.

There’s a moment of silence where Bucky watches Steve shrug on the harness that he usually uses to hold his shield. Bucky bites his lip, and looks down at what he’s wearing: it’s all black; in particular, a black long-sleeved shirt, like he’d wear to the gym, on one of his bad days. He probably looks a mess, but he prefers to be unshaven; he likes his hair tied back, for practicality. 

Steve picks up on his concern, after a minute. “You’ll be fine in what you’re wearing. Til we can find something more permanent. We've got a lot of supplies,”  
“What if they don’t want me to be permanent?” Bucky says, intending it to be a joke; it falls flat.  
“They will. They trust me – so they’ll trust you,” Steve says, and there’s a determination in his voice that rings a bell in Bucky’s mind: there’s a thin, petulant face reflected in his mind’s eye. 

_Jersey?_

_They’ll catch you. Worse, they’ll actually take you._

His fist clenches. He was so afraid they’d take Steve. He was so afraid they’d hurt him. He never thought they could do more damage curing him, than they could imprisoning him, or sending him to the front. Steve’s never been the same, but neither is he - and that’s okay. The doctor said it was okay. Nothing’s wrong. They’re both safe, and they can be healthy, and they can survive and exist in the moment, no matter how far that moment is from where and when they used to call home. Now they have a new home: it's here, and now; whenever they're together, they're home. 

_OK_ , Bucky signs, and gets up to find some shoes. 

-

In the new building, there’s a large reception area outside the conference room the Avengers usually use for meetings: it’s filled with sofas and chairs. Steve and Bucky arrive early, so they sit; Steve takes the lead, and Bucky sits down beside him, hands on his knees. Steve smiles faintly at an old enlistment poster from the war with his face on, which stares back at them from a wall on the far side of the room. Bucky stares at it too. He doesn’t smile. He counts up in sevens, and manually relaxes the muscles in his right arm. The left mirrors it on autopilot. 

Natasha is the first to arrive: she comes from behind them, and taps Steve on the shoulder. He stands up, and smiles broadly, as he greets her: “Natasha. How’s the new arrival?”  
“What, Nathaniel?” Natasha asks doubtfully, one eyebrow arching. “Not new. He’s a year old now,”  
“That’s still new, isn’t it?” Steve asks, only half-joking.  
“Remind me to never let you babysit for him,” Natasha says, with a smile. Her eyes slide past Steve’s shoulder, to where Bucky is now standing, observing the conversation with a satisfied look. 

He likes seeing Steve happy. Natasha makes him happy. It’s good he has others to fall back on, when Bucky lets him down, and makes him miserable. 

“Natasha, this is-” Steve begins, before shutting his mouth. Bucky can tell from his face, he’s wishing he’d asked beforehand how Bucky wanted to be addressed. Bucky rolls his eyes at Steve, and steps forward.  
“Call me Bucky. Nice to meet you – officially,” He says, keeping his voice neutral, not wanting to say or do anything at all that would negatively affect Natasha’s relationship with Steve. He knows he could reflect really, really badly on him.  
“We’ve met,” Natasha says, a hint of dark humour in her voice. She reaches out her right hand for him to shake all the same.  
“. . . Right,” Bucky says. “Sorry,”  
“Please. Half the people here have tried to kill me. You just came closest,” Natasha points out. Her tone is strangely congratulatory. Bucky finds himself smiling without having to think about it or practise in the mirror first. 

“Sorry – excuse me,” Steve says, hand on Bucky’s shoulder, as he walks away: Bucky turns around and sees a bright light outside the window, and he knows that Wanda has arrived. He watches Steve walk away, going out to meet her; leaving him alone with Natasha. Bucky knows he’s acting purposefully, trying to get them to bond – he doesn’t feel tricked, though. He’s just glad Steve cares enough for him that he’s helping him interact with more people, and make more friends, just like Dr. Franklin wanted. Even if the other people are Avengers. 

“You seem different,” Natasha says, after approaching with heavy steps. He knows she doesn’t want to spook him. She is more compassionate than he’d have bargained on.  
“I’m not trying to kill you,” He says simply. He hears her snort.  
“Well, yeah. That’s one thing. But . . .” He turns away from the window, and back to her. She looks more serious, now – she’s thoughtful, as she surveys him. He stays very still, though he knows he isn’t being monitored for _fault_ or _damage_. Not the way Hydra did with him, anyway. 

“. . . You’re good for him. You centre him,” She says simply. He blinks, wondering if Steve has voiced his own doubts to Natasha before. He’s often wondered if he’s just adding to the pile of ailments Steve suffers from – the responsibilities heaped on him as an Avenger, and the isolation and alienation he faces being out of time – but he guesses that’s not the case. She would know. Steve’s very close with her, and he talks about her all the time; Bucky feels like he knows her. Bucky feels like he likes her, too. 

Both of them sharply look around when the doors open loudly: in walks Tony Stark, pieces of his Iron Man armour still flying from his body and away to some distant storage box as he walks. The final glove detaches as he swans past them, not sparing Bucky a glance.  
“Good morning to you too, Tony,” Natasha says dryly, as he walks past.  
“Really? It’s morning? Huh. Guess I didn’t realise, being up all night talking to lawyers. Lawyers, Natasha,” He complains, turning back to face her with a grimace, as he makes his way to the conference room. He looks disgusted, and fatigued.  
“Well, maybe if you hadn’t made a murder-bot-” Natasha mutters.  
“Always with the murder-bot. Relax about it,” Tony says irritably, as he steps through the door into the conference room without pausing. Natasha sighs, and looks back at Bucky. 

“You want to go inside?” She asks. 

Bucky looks up at the doors: he sees Tony Stark setting up a computer, and some sort of holographic screen in the centre of a large round table, though the glass – clearly taking charge, despite the fact he’s been away for months, leaving Steve to lead the team.  
He glances back at the outside door, and wonders if he should wait. He doesn’t know if he feels comfortable going in there without Steve, just this first time around – sure, if it was hostile enemy territory, he could just shoot whatever it was that was causing him trouble, or grief; but these are his _allies_ , and he has to make nice. He finds it hard to do that – at least, at first – without Steve there. He knows this from his experience with Sam. He wonders where Sam is, and hopes him or Steve get back soon. 

It’s funny, in a dark kind of way – he thought Steve would kill him, or have him tried and convicted and sentenced to life in jail, at least, before he thought he'd be _happy_ to be reunited with him. He never thought he’d be here, at an Avengers meeting; he never thought the difficulties in his life would involve _social_ situations, or feeling uncomfortable in them. They’re problems he’d have dismissed, in the past, but now they’re incredibly real, and he suddenly feels very self-conscious. He feels his metal fingers tug on the sleeve of his shirt, covering his hand, allowing it to retreat into obscurity as he stares on. 

“Hey,” Natasha says. He looks back down at her, as she asks, “You okay?” 

He realises he’s been silently staring at the door for half a minute. She must think he wants to make a run for it. 

He nods. 

“We can stay here,”  
_Thanks_ , he signs automatically with his right hand, like he always does when he feels like he can’t talk. He thinks for a moment that maybe she doesn’t understand, or Steve hasn’t briefed the others about his use of signs; his fears are dispelled quickly, though, when she signs back, _no problem_. 

He gives her a small smile, both hands coming into play, so the only noise between them is the whirring and clicking of his prosthesis: _I don’t mean to check out. I’m out of practise._  
“It’s okay. We’ve all been there. You just need time. And besides – it’s good practise for me. Clint’s always losing his hearing aids. I’m sure the kids hide them to try and stop him from coming to work,” She says. Bucky smirks. 

To Bucky’s relief, it’s only a moment or two of comfortable silence before Sam walks through the door: his wings are still folding themselves up as he walks through the double doors.  
“Hey, Sarge!” He calls, attracting Natasha’s attention, too.  
“Sam,” He says, smiling. Sam’s hand hovers over his shoulder, not touching, and he smiles.  
“You been working on your upper body? Maybe your biceps will be as good as mine someday soon,” Sam says, sounding impressed, though his tone tongue-in-cheek.  
“Kiss my ass,” Bucky says, still smiling, batting away Sam’s hand. Natasha snorts – she hardly expected those to be some of the first words she heard Bucky utter, when she officially met him. But, well – then again. He is friends with Sam, and Steve; he _was_ in the army. She watches as he visibly relaxes, feeling much safer, now. She hopes to have that effect on him, one day.  
“You wish,” Sam says. “Let’s get started, then. Is the star-spangled man with a plan already in there?” Sam asks, pointing at the conference room. The door opens again, answering his question – in walks Steve, accompanied by Wanda and the Vision. 

“Come on,” Sam says, leading Bucky and Natasha to the conference room, as they all file in. 

Bucky stares at all the seats, and after a second or two, decides to stand to one side, and await instructions, staring at the hologram of the Avengers logo hovering above the table for a few moments, and pretending that this isn’t really hard for him. 

“Hey, Buck – c’mon,” Steve says, making sure Bucky sees his hand, before it takes Bucky’s hand, and he guides him to a seat. Bucky wonders how many sets of eyes are on him, right now; he doesn’t have it in him to cast his gaze around to find out. That’s okay, though, because Steve doesn’t seem to mind. That’s all that really matters, all things considered. 

He watches as Wanda sits down beside the Vision, and mutters something in Sokovian. It’s a dialect he’s pretty rusty in, but he can still tell what she’s saying: _I wonder if Tony’s calmed down yet_. The Vision considers Tony, as he places a bunch of documents on the table, sorting them into piles, with his eyes flitting between papers irritably. 

Bucky’s eyes wander over him: no, he doesn’t look calm. He looks agitated as hell, and grumpy, too. Bucky thinks he knows why. 

Sam takes a box of cookies out of his bag, and hands them to Natasha, who automatically takes one with a muttered ‘thank you’ – this continues around the table, the Vision passing them over, until they reach Bucky. He looks down into the box, and to Sam, who nods. _Yup, you’re allowed one_. Bucky nods his thanks, and eats it quickly. It's really good, he finds; he's glad he trusted Sam enough to eat it. 

The box reaches Tony; he waves them away, and Sam looks mildly offended.  
“What, you don’t like my Mom’s cookies now?” He asks suspiciously.  
“I’m not hungry,” Tony says wearily.  
“Why don’t we get the meeting underway then?” Steve asks. 

That’s when Tony stops organising his files, and sits back in his chair. Instead of starting the meeting, as everyone is clearly expecting, he just stares at Steve, with an expression that asks, really?

Steve shifts in his chair, but stares back at Tony with a gaze that gradually grows more hard and disapproving, the longer it goes on. Neither of them move for a minute or two. The tension in the room grows markedly, with the others looking between them: Bucky freezes completely, feeling like he’s not been told everything, here, and wondering what’s going on; whether or not Steve is about to be attacked. That feeling in his chest that he has all the time – the one that makes him feel like a tightly-coiled spring, or an animal ready to pounce – intensifies, at the thought of having to leap to Steve’s defence, even in some small way. He’d do anything, and he’d do it in a heartbeat, to help Steve. No matter who opposes him. 

“. . . I think it would be best to introduce our new teammate, first,” The Vision says, his voice calming and forthright like always. Bucky looks at him directly, for the first time having a reason to stare: until now, he’s been avoiding doing so, aside from his usual cursory, reflexive threat-assessments. The Vision gazes back at him with an expression Bucky would term as ‘thoughtful’. He wonders if artificial intelligences can ‘think’ – after all, he, himself, did nothing like _thinking_ for a few years. But there’s something wise, yet somehow still young and hopeful, about the Vision's features. He's strange, but not unpleasant, to look at. 

“Great idea,” Nat says. “Why don’t you . . . ?” Nat asks, expecting Bucky to follow her lead. 

Everyone’s looking at him, now – including Steve, and Tony – and while he thought earlier that he wouldn’t be able to talk, he now finds himself wanting desperately to distract Steve from whatever conflict he’s part of; to make him proud, and bring his spirits up. So he tries to speak.  
“I’m . . . James Barnes. Sergeant James Barnes – call me Bucky,” He says, echoing his earlier words.  
“We should introduce ourselves as well,” Sam points out.  
“What is this, group therapy? Me and AA meetings don’t mix well,” Tony quips, receiving a withering look from Natasha.  
“You already know me,” Sam says, ignoring Tony’s comment completely. “But here you can call me Falcon,” He adds.  
“You wish,” Bucky mutters, echoing Sam’s earlier retort.  
“So it’s like that, is it?” Sam asks, shaking his head. Bucky smirks, before looking around the table, to where Wanda and the Vision are sat.  
“Wanda Maximoff,” Wanda says. Her eyes flash red, just for a second: when they do, her expression changes, just a fraction. She’s still smiling politely, but her eyes are haunted; her brow falters, for a moment, though she puts a brave face on whatever’s wrong. Bucky represses a frown, pulling his mouth up at both sides, trying to remain friendly.  
“I am the Vision. You may address me with they, them and their pronouns,” The Vision says. Bucky blinks, and looks at Steve, who nods almost imperceptibly. Bucky used to be so good at telling when people were lying – now, he can’t tell if people are being serious with him. He guesses it was a side-effect of no one being truthful with him for decades. He guesses this isn’t something they joke about, though. 

“Got it,” Bucky replies, making an effort to nod, and commit what the Vision said to memory. Steve’s had the LGBT+ talk with him – it was an enlightening experience, to say the least – so he gets the concept of pronouns; he's always used he pronouns, and so has Steve. But he has the queasy feeling that he’s going to slip up. He just hopes nothing bad will happen, when he makes an error. He hates to slip up. He hates to make mistakes. He hates being anything but perfect, and battle-ready. He hates what happens to him when he makes mistakes. 

He shakes himself when Nat says, “We’ve met. I’m Natasha, you can call me Widow,” He says.  
“Sure thing,” Bucky says softly, nodding at her. He places his hands on the table, clasping the fingers together. Though he’s learned to tune out the noise of his prosthesis, both the sound of it, and the way it gleams in the conference room lights, draw the eyes of the others: he notices them look, and regrets putting his hands where they can see; but when he goes to move, his hands are locked together, and he knows his prosthesis is glitching, after a long period of inactivity, and will take a few moments to right itself. It’s an old piece of hardware, after all. 

He curses the metal limb, but thinks to himself, _oh well. At least this gets showing them my arm out of the way_. But, to his surprise, no one comments on it, even when it whirrs like an overheating computer, rebooting. 

Sam adds, “Thor’s out in Asgard, Bruce is AWOL right now – Rhodey was gonna be here, but he’s out with the army at the moment. Something about relief efforts in Sokovia taking longer than expected,” Sam says, glancing sideways at Tony, who doesn’t react. 

The table turns to Tony one by one, expecting him to speak: but he’s got his arms folded, and he’s eyeing Bucky with suspicion.  
“I’d like to address something. How come he’s here?” He says, finally saying what he’s been thinking this whole time.  
“Tony,” Natasha reprimands, warning in her voice.  
“No – I’m serious. This guy’s worse than a civilian – he’s tried to kill three of us. And now he’s done a bit of sharing and caring, and he’s allowed onto the team, just like that?” Tony asks in disbelief.  
“Sharing and caring? – Therapy is hard, Tony, which you’d know if you tried it,” Sam says, his expression nowhere near as light and accommodating as it was when he was joking with Bucky a few moments ago.  
“I’ve talked to a doctor,” Tony dismisses.  
“Bruce doesn’t count,” Natasha replies stonily. Tony waves her point away, and continues:  
“Why am I suddenly the villain here? – It’s a valid point. Two years back this guy was Hydra’s poster boy, he almost beat Cap to _death_ , and now I’m supposed to introduce myself and shake hands like he’s a war hero?” He asks incredulously.  
“Bucky _is_ a war hero,” Steve says, and Bucky notices him clenching his fists where they sit on the table.  
“Just out of curiosity, which of us in this room have floored you, on purpose?” Tony says, waving a hand in Bucky’s direction, not looking at him directly. It’s clear as day he doesn’t want him there. He adds, “Who’s given you a beating you couldn’t walk away from?”

“Me,” 

Steve and Tony both look around, and see Wanda glaring at Tony. “You did not protest having me on the team. I have been working with the Avengers for months now. I used to work with Hydra. I am atoning. What gives you the right to refuse him the same chance to do good?” She says, tilting her head towards Bucky.  
“I am the result of Ultron’s endeavours,” The Vision points out. “And yet you gave me custody of an infinity gem. Sergeant Barnes is asking for a much lesser favour. He wants to put his life on the line to protect yours, and your teammates’,” 

Tony opens his mouth to counter them, but Natasha cuts in, once more:  
“You’ve worked with someone who worked for the KGB, before turning. Most of us had more choice than Bucky had – not a lot more, but a little. So stow your opinions, for once, and work with him. Work with us,” She implores. 

Tony looks between them all, an expression of incredulity on his face. 

“So you’ve all got a sob-story. Doesn’t make what he did right. He hurt Steve, and you’re all willing to excuse that,” Tony says, unable and unwilling to look past what happened on that helicarrier in 2014.  
“It wasn’t _him_ , you ass,” Steve says, raising his voice, for the first time Bucky’s seen since he’s been back with him. He can tell, glancing at his shaking fists, that he wants to fight Tony. He’s been the same way since he was small, Bucky seems to know, without question. Always with an insatiable need to fight. It’s who he is, as much as he’s a gentle, kind artist.  
“We’ve only got his word for that,” Tony says. 

Steve suddenly stands up, fists at his sides, staring down at Tony, who recoils slightly in his chair. Bucky automatically stands up too, but places a hand on Steve’s shoulder to restrain him – the reflex comes from somewhere in the thirties, travelling at the speed of light through his nerves, to the here and now. _Please, Stevie. It’s not worth it. You don’t really wanna do this._

“Stevie,” He says, opening his mouth for the first time in a few minutes. Steve glances over his shoulder, an expression part-way between confusion and surprise on his face. _It’s been so long since he called me that_. He vows to bring it up at some point, as he turns back to Tony:  
“If you don’t wanna lose us both from the team, you’d better watch your attitude, Tony,” He says in a low voice, laced with something dark that Bucky can’t really identify. Maybe it’s loyalty. 

Steve starts walking out of the room, so Bucky follows, nodding to Sam and Nat, and across the table to Wanda and the Vision, as he leaves. Their absence brings a tense silence. 

After the doors close, sealing them inside, Natasha turns to Tony:  
“He’s right. You’re gonna lose them if you don’t watch what you say,”  
“He’s a murderer, Nat – dozens of people,” He points out again. That’s when Wanda rises from her seat, too, looking down at Tony with revulsion.  
“She is right. You are childish, Stark. I deal with you for the sake of the world, but I can only be so patient,” She says, her lip curling. She follows Steve and Bucky out of the room. 

Tony turns to the Vision, and asks them, “Back me up, buddy. Smartest guy – or, uh _person_ – in the room – you must agree with me?”  
The artificial intelligence pauses, looking at the door where the three of them just left, before replying: “He is genuinely repentant. He shows no signs of deceit, or ill-will. I have processed the videos and data files regarding his training, his assassinations, and his torture. The mathematics of the situation are clear – he intends to do more good than he has done bad. His only loyalty is to Captain Rogers, and perhaps to Mr. Wilson,”  
“I don’t believe it. I made you, how come you don’t agree with me here?” Tony asks, clearly disappointed. 

The Vision rises, as they correct him, “Actually, I am the product of several humans, and a robot. But the one to give me life was Thor. And I do not believe he would abide the lack of loyalty you show for your fellow warrior,” The Vision reprimands.  
“Barnes is _not_ my fellow warrior,” Tony insists.  
“But Captain Rogers is,” They point out, before walking out of the room by phasing directly through the door, leaving Tony with Natasha and Sam. 

“What’s the deal here, man? You didn’t fight this hard, when Steve originally brought up bringing Bucky in,” Sam asks, trying to level with Tony, and understand what’s wrong.  
“I didn’t think he’d _do_ it. You’ve all been telling me how rocky the road’s been, for him. I thought he’d flake out, and I wouldn’t have to deal with this bullshit,” Tony confesses.  
“. . . They’re right, Tony. We’ve all done something bad,” Nat says, after a short pause. “Well – except Steve. And Sam,” She says, arching an eyebrow at Sam.  
“Except me,” Sam repeats. “But what about them? What makes Bucky different, to you?” He asks, his voice softer than before, in a last-ditch attempt to get Tony to open up to him.  
Tony stands up, and strides over to the window, folding his arms: he faces away from them, reaching out for a second to tap at the glass, and set it to transparent, rather than opaque, as it was for the duration of the meeting. He watches Steve and Bucky walk across the quad below them, and presumably back to their quarters. He sighs. 

“You all know what you’ve done. You remember everything – but him . . . Some of it he can’t even remember. Who’s to say what he did, really – who’s to say how much he really remembers?” Tony points out.  
“Wanda could tell us,” Nat suggests.  
“She shouldn’t have to. We need to be able to trust him, to work with him – but we can’t,” Tony insists.  
“He doesn’t have to tell us everything. It was Steve he hurt, and us to some extent, but not you – he doesn’t owe you an explanation,” Sam points out. Tony laughs bitterly.  
“Doesn’t he?” He asks. 

There’s a loaded pause. Gradually, Sam and Natasha both realise what he’s referring to, sharing a troubled look, as Tony stares out of the window, watching Steve and Bucky until he can’t anymore. 

“He doesn’t remember. Or – he says he doesn’t. So we don’t know what he’s done, who he’s killed, and how. He’s dangerous,” Tony reiterates.  
“. . . Your parents died in a car crash, Tony,” Natasha states, her voice calculatedly even.  
“Would’ve been the easiest thing in the world, for a guy like that to cut the break lines,”  
“Enough, Tony – do you even hear yourself? It was ruled an accident,” Natasha says.  
“But Hydra had every reason to want dad dead,” Tony points out, turning around to her and gesticulating as he speaks.  
“But Bucky Barnes didn’t! He and Howard were good friends. You know that - he didn’t want to kill them,” Natasha reminds him.  
“So what, he was just following orders?” Tony says bitterly. “Yeah. I bet Steve heard a lot of that during the war. He’s a lot more receptive to that excuse now, though,”  
“Don’t you dare,” Natasha says, rising from her seat, a dangerous expression in her eyes. Sam rises too, watching her carefully, afraid that what Tony’s saying might get to her, too. They can’t afford to fall apart – not over this. Not over Steve regaining his old friend. “Don’t you dare say that. Not about someone _tortured_ by Nazis. None of that was his choice. So don’t you fucking dare, Tony,” She tells him, her voice a murmur towards the end. 

There’s a long, loaded silence. Tony just stares at her, and Sam can see the emotion in his eyes – he’s conflicted, it’s plain as day to see. He doesn’t know Tony very well personally, aside from the few missions where he’s played the role of Captain America alongside Tony, when Steve was indisposed, but it’s no secret that Tony’s relationship with his dad was rocky, at best. 

“You sure like the guy, huh, Romanoff,” Tony says, though his usually light, quick-witted voice is thick with emotion.  
“Yeah, I do. And you owe him an apology,” She says, ignoring any subtext in Tony’s words that was meant to insult her.  
“You need to accept that he’s part of our team, because Steve isn’t coming back without him. And – neither are we,” Sam adds, more confident towards the end of the sentence. Tony looks between the two of them in disbelief, before turning back to the window. 

He takes a visibly large sigh, eyes searching the quad below for guidance. He doesn’t find anything to contradict his thoughts: _you need to fix this._

“How can I make this right?” He says, before turning around.  
Sam looks at Natasha, and nods.  
“Barnes has problems with his arm. It’s – heavy, and the panels aren’t as resilient as they could be. It glitches, too. It would be great if you could do something about that,” Natasha says. 

Tony scrubs a hand down his face, closing his eyes; all the same, he says, “I presume you can get me a list of all the things he needs fixed, Falcon?”  
“Yeah – I can,” Sam says, voice quiet.  
“. . . Fine. I’ll do it. I can’t put a rush on it, though – I’ve got a lot on my plate – and no, Dr. Phil, I don’t wanna talk about it,” Tony says.  
“Good. Cause I wasn’t gonna offer,” Sam says, raising an eyebrow at him. Tony's refused enough help from him and suggestions to see a therapist, in the past. "We’ll see you later, Tony,” He adds, before following Natasha out of the room.  
“Fix this,” She reminds him, eyeing him with borderline suspicion, on her way out. 

He’s left alone with his files and documents, wondering what the hell happened to his previously loyal team. Granted, he’s only been back for a few months, since Cap’s been preoccupied with his ‘ _ex-assassin_ ’ house-guest – but he thought they had something special; he thought they were a lot more cohesive, than before. 

But now . . . This has thrown a spanner in the works. 

“Great talk,” He mutters wistfully to himself, scrubbing a hand down his face. 

He tries to ignore the feeling that things are coming apart, for him, as he turns back to the documents his lawyers have given him to sign, marked, ‘Ultron Inquiry’.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around!! You guys are the best. Thank you for your support so far. 
> 
> I've decided that Monday will be the update day for this fic. So, there will be a new chapter every Monday. Cheers!!

“I’m sorry about that, Buck,” Steve says, after he shuts the door to their apartment. It’s within the complex of the new building, so they haven’t been walking for long, but while they were they shared a thoughtful silence. It’s plain as day, however, that Steve’s concerned. “Things shouldn’t be that way. It’s just . . . Tony’s been under a lot of stress,” Steve says, obviously trying to make excuses for him. He clearly wants to be the better man, here, despite the fact he’s angry as hell with Tony. Bucky gives him a small smile, mirroring Steve’s pose of placing his hands on his waist. 

“. . . It could have gone better,” Bucky admits. “. . . They came out to support me. The others,” He points out. Steve smiles back, before looking out of the window, and replying:  
“They sure did,” He pauses, looking back at Bucky with a more serious expression, “We can’t begin to say we understand what you went through. But all of us get it a little bit,” Steve points out.  
“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding once. He casts his eyes to the floor for a second, scratching the back of his head self-consciously, before adding, “Franklin’s gonna be pleased. New allies – new friends,” He corrects.  
“Right,” Steve says, a sad smile on his face. He’s glad Bucky wants to impress his therapist, but he’s hoping he’s not just making the effort for that reason. It makes sense for him to want allies, though. 

Bucky turns away before Steve can see his expression become grim. 

“You gonna train today?” Steve asks, and Bucky hears him walking to the kitchen.  
“Maybe. I don’t have a lot of plans. I thought that meeting was gonna take longer,” Bucky points out.  
“I can see if any of the others want to train with you? For practise, before you work with them in the field? – some of their powers can be a big adjustment,”  
“You mean they haven’t all got a giant frisbee they leave all over the place?” Bucky says, a smirk evident in his voice. He reaches for his journal, which he keeps in a draw within the coffee table, before putting his feet up, and opening it up. He wants to catalogue the events of today, as quickly as possible, before he forgets.  
“Yeah. And some of them might actually kick your ass for a comment like that,” Steve replies sarcastically.  
“They could try,” Bucky replies, his voice softer.  
“They’d succeed,” Steve says, entering the room, eating a banana. _Of course_ he heard that. His serum included the side-effect of much better hearing, after all. Bucky can’t say if his did, too – especially not with the hearing damage he’s slowly recuperating from, after standing by gunfire and explosions alike, unprotected, for decades, without being given time to rest or heal. _Exposed. Exploited. Abused._

Where his pen is in contact with the page, it creates an ink blot: he doesn't realise he’s zoned out until he sees that black dot, growing over some of his words, and staining them dark as his thoughts. 

He turns the page, and looks up at Steve, who’s looking at him – he looks back to the fruit, when Bucky catches him looking, though.  
“. . . I don’t know how you can eat those things,” Bucky says, a note of disgust in his voice, trying his best to distract from the fact he was just back on that highway, back on the bridge, in his mind. Back fighting Steve. Back being _him_. 

But there was no ‘him’. It was all Bucky. Dr. Franklin told him not to dissociate himself from what he did. Creating a whole other him, Dr. Franklin said, wouldn’t be conducive to recovery. _Acceptance_ , it was called. Acceptance that he and the Winter Soldier are the same, but with different degrees of pliancy, and freedom, and thought. 

“They’re nice,” Steve protests, taking another bite.  
“They’re disgusting,” Bucky says, absent-mindedly wiping his inky hand on the already-ruined paper.  
“They’re just not the same anymore,” Steve disputes.  
“Well neither am I, but you can bet I still taste the same,” Bucky comments with a smirk, deflecting from his inner emotional turmoil, without looking up from his journal. He actually hears Steve choke.  
“Bucky!” 

Bucky chuckles to himself; his laughter fades away, until he’s just writing: the names of his teammates, the way they defended him. _Reminder – the Vision uses they/them/their pronouns. Natasha doesn’t hold it against you. Sam’s Mom baked cookies for the group. Steve stuck up for you. Wanda’s eyes glowed red for a moment, but she’s been treated badly by Hydra, too._

. . . Huh. He taps the top of the pen against his lip for a moment, staring down at the words. Usually, he isn’t able to think about Hydra so casually – not without experiencing a bout of aggression, sadness or worse - but he guesses when he’s thinking about someone else’s experiences, he’s able to distance himself. 

He’s still curious about what happened to her, though. 

“. . . Training with teammates,” Bucky says quietly; Steve hums, and he looks up, adding, “I think I’d like to train with Wanda,”

Steve’s eyebrows raise. 

-

There’s a whole area of the facility for training, without any equipment or obstacles set up: a large, open space, with soft floors, for sparring. That’s where Steve arranges for Wanda to meet up with Bucky, that same afternoon. He comes dressed to spar - though he still wears long sleeves – wondering if she engages in hand-to-hand combat often. From the little he’s heard from Steve, he’d guess not. Steve didn’t tell him a lot: Bucky thinks it’s partly because he doesn’t know her that well, and partly because he wants to let her tell Bucky as much as she wants, and how she wants. He doesn’t even like to speak for Bucky, let alone someone he knows a lot less than him. 

She’s already there when he arrives: she stands on the far side of the room, red luminescence flowing from her hands, blooming in arcs in front of her red eyes, creating floating, red objects in space. They look like tiny nebulae; it causes Bucky to stop, for a moment, and think about the stars. He always loved the stars. Beautiful, functional, and constant. _Old light_. 

“Miss. Maximoff?” He asks. The old light fades out, and she looks at him directly, her irises permeated with red.  
“Wanda,” She says, and he’s struck, yet again, by her accent. He switches to Sokovian, thinking quickly to try and translate.  
“I’m sorry,” He says, and he sees her smile a little at his use of her native language.  
“You know Sokovian,” She replies in kind. He nods once, approaching.  
“Some. I apologise for any errors,” He states. His Sokovian is is mainly formal, but he gets by.  
"You seem to have a lot to apologise for,” She observes. He just shifts on his feet, before nodding. “But you don’t,” She corrects him. 

He sighs, and scratches the back of his head. 

“Steve hasn’t told me much about you,” He says, trying to be polite.  
“You have come to ask about my powers,” She surmises.  
“Well – yes. But . . . There are other things, too,” He says, shifting again. 

She makes eye contact with him, and her eyes glow minutely more than before. He feels as if he’s being watched: not like she’s staring at him, but like there’s someone standing behind him, and either side, many pairs of eyes looking at him, looking into him, reading him like an open book. He wants to blink, and shake his head, but he feels like he’s being pinned down – held down, _do not move, compliance will be rewarded, are you ready to comply?_

_Up the dosage. Give me that – the drawing. Ah, yes. See? You are safe. Nothing to be afraid of. We have a mission for you. Sit back. Compliance will be rewarded._

He breathes harshly through his nose, and though he tries to open his mouth to make a sound, he feels as if his whole body has grown rigid. 

Luckily, that’s when she stops – she takes a deep breath, looking shocked, and says,  
“I apologise – people are not usually so . . . Receptive. They do not take notice of what I am doing to them, if I am quick. I thought I would go undetected. But you are someone who is acutely aware of when they are being manipulated, aren’t you, Winter Soldier?”  
“Don’t call me that,” He says – he catches himself, after realising he vocalised in Russian. He repeats in Sokovian, “Don’t call me that. I’m not who they made me. Not anymore,”  
“I am sorry,” She says, though her body language is wary, now. “. . . Most people have a clear worst nightmare. Yours is . . . A lot harder to detect. A lot of the things you fear have already happened to you,”  
“What more have I got to lose,” Bucky points out wearily. 

Wanda hums, pursing her lips. 

“Do you know what I just saw?” She asks, curiously, though her expression is still grim. He nods. “Do you understand it?”  
“Parts,” He says, truthfully. There’s not much point in lying, he notes miserably.  
“. . . The torture and brainwashing, you understand – the manipulation . . . They used personal belongings as a reward. Remind you of your old life. Make you feel safe. Reinforce good behaviour,”  
“Good behaviour,” He echoes. She nods, setting her jaw.  
“They did it with me and Pietro. My brother,” She says bitterly. “The experiments were brutal. We were separated a lot. I did not want to give up, but sometimes I did not have the strength to go on. That is . . . Until they would let me see Pietro. When I saw him, it was like I could fight on forever. I felt safe, and I could go on,”  
“You were close,” Bucky says.  
“Twins. Survivors,” She confirms.  
“I’m sorry,” Bucky apologises, again. She shakes her head.  
“We volunteered. We were – _blinded_ by vengeance. By the time we were experiencing the agony of their experiments, locked away, it was too late to turn back. When they finally let us see one another, we were monsters – but we were closer than ever. We never let ourselves be separated again . . . Until one day, he was gone,” 

Bucky feels his face growing hotter. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“. . . I’m still sorry. No one should lose a brother – you’re atoning now. You said so earlier,” Bucky points out. She smiles bitterly.  
“Perhaps it is . . . Too much to atone for. I have no excuses. We still aided the men who did this to you,” She says, indicating Bucky’s left arm with a nod of her head. 

To her surprise, he laughs, albeit hollowly.  
“That wasn’t them. No . . . That was all me. Falling out of a train, trying to save Steve,”  
“. . . He is like your brother,” She says.  
“Something like that,” He replies softly, looking down at his left arm. “The metal arm is them. It’s a terrible . . . Necessity,” He says, struggling to find the word. She smiles sadly.  
“I feel the same way about my powers, frequently, of late,” She admits. “. . . Do you know what I can do with my powers?”  
“Not completely,” He says honestly, folding his arms.  
“It is – complicated. But I can read your mind, as you have seen. And – I know you do not trust me. You do not trust anyone, except Steve. But I think I can atone a little, today, by helping you,” 

He pauses, shifting, and frowning: “How?” he asks, and she takes a deep breath.  
“I detected several detrimental . . . Programs, within your head. Fail-safes, code-words. Things they used to make sure you never went AWOL. Apparently, you did, once. But . . . If someone were to use these words against you, you would be rendered incapacitated – compliant, or unconscious, or worse. I have seen them programming you, though you cannot access the memories. They were brutal with their mind-wipes,”  
“Programs? - Anyone could set me off?” Bucky asks, his breathing quickening.  
“If they knew the appropriate code-words,” She confirms unhappily.  
“What can I – how do I get rid of them?” He asks quickly.  
“I think I can help,” She says, looking him in the eye, again, though without the trace of scarlet surrounding her irises. 

He gulps, and considers it, for a moment, letting the feeling of panic and nausea subside, before he finally says: “. . . Let me call Steve,” 

-

It takes a lot to convince Steve to let Wanda help. It took a lot of mutual convincing, for all three of them, actually. 

They all know the risks: they could set something off in Bucky that could make him worse, or could trigger one of his more violent failsafe programs – Wanda intends to act more like a bomb disposal expert, than Bucky’s therapist, it seems. The effect could potentially be good for Bucky’s mental health, though. As he explained to Steve earlier, Tony’s comments hit home: he doesn’t know if he can trust himself, right now - let alone let his allies, and the people he cares about, trust him. 

He thinks he owes it to himself, and to them, to allow himself to be diffused. Steve wasn’t crazy about the idea of him relinquishing control of his mind, even for a little while, again – and neither was he – but it’s only temporary, and the failsafes they could dispose of would take way more from him than just his mind. They’d control his body, steal his autonomy and, in the worst case, Wanda tells him, cause him to unstoppably murder everyone in the vicinity. 

He sits on his and Steve’s bed: Wanda said it would be best to do this somewhere where Bucky feels comfortable – not because it’s going to take a long time, though it might - but because it’s going to _feel_ like a long time, for Bucky. And because he’s going to need comforting. 

His elbows rest on his knees, and his eyes are shut. Steve stands beside him, hands on his hips.  
“. . . Are you sure?” He asks, not for the first time.  
“I’m sure,” Bucky says aloud, feeling like this is something Steve wants to hear aloud in his voice, yet again, before he can even begin to believe it.  
“It’s not one hundred percent safe,” Steve reminds him. Bucky smiles bitterly.  
“Nothing is,” He says, but pauses. _Following you into battle wasn’t safe, but I did that for you, too_ , he signs. He can’t say it out loud. He watches Steve watch his signs, putting the sentence together, rearranging it in his head; when he understands, his face crumples.  
“Don’t,” Steve says, swallowing involuntarily, before continuing, “Don’t do it for me. If you’re gonna do it, do it for you. To keep you safe. And free,” Steve reminds him. 

Bucky looks up at him, seeing his eyes, which are much sadder than before: he hates to bring up what he lost, following Steve. Steve always blames himself. So he doesn’t do it often. 

He reaches up and takes Steve’s left hand in his left hand, using the gentle touch he used to catch the apple, earlier, to maintain a grip just tight enough to let Steve know he won’t slip away. 

“I’ll do it for me,” Bucky says. At length, Steve nods once. The silence is heavy, before Bucky calls Wanda in. He’s glad for the moment she gave him with Steve.  
“You think you can do this?” Steve asks her, not doubting her, but still anxious on Bucky’s behalf.  
“Do you not trust me?” She asks Steve, getting the measure of him from a lengthy look at his face; his nervous posture.  
“I don’t trust Hydra. What if they’ve put something in his mind that – I don’t know . . . What if trying to get rid of these programs hurts Bucky?” Steve asks, and bites his lip.  
“They didn’t account for me,” Wanda tells him, sounding at least a little confident. “They never assumed I would turn against them, like this. And besides – half of the programs in his mind were forced upon him before I was even born, from what I've seen so far," She reminds Steve. 

Steve looks down at Bucky. He taps each of the fingers of his left hand against his left thumb, listening to the rhythmic humming and whirrs, blinking in time. He’s calming himself down. Steve knows he likes to do sums when he feels panicked. _Good practise - for the coriolis effect_ , he'd told Steve, once. 

“. . . Let’s do this,” Steve says; Bucky looks up at him, and makes the effort to smile. Steve reaches out to him – Bucky recoils, for a second, on instinct. But before Steve can apologise and withdraw his hand, he corrects himself: he presses Steve’s palm to his cheek, pushing it up to his stubble and smiling at him again. It feels _right_ , somehow, to be reassuring Steve, despite the fact that he’s the one who’s going to go through this. 

Steve smiles back, putting a brave face on his thoughts, for now; he leans down, and presses a gentle kiss to Bucky’s forehead, before murmuring against his skin, “Please be careful, in there,”  
“Will do, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs back. 

Steve withdraws. 

“Please – lie down. Close your eyes, and try to calm your mind,” Wanda says, “. . . I may make it so you cannot move, so Steve doesn’t become worried, is that okay?” She asks Bucky quickly in Sokovian.  
“Yes. Good plan,” Bucky agrees, doing as she says. Honestly, he doesn’t want Steve to be any more worried about this than he already is. If he sees Bucky moving at all, he might call the whole thing off, and Bucky doesn’t want that. 

Steve doesn’t question their change in language: he assumes Bucky is happier speaking in Wanda’s native tongue. Bucky was always great at languages, even before the war. _Dames sure did love his French_. 

“Relax,” Wanda says, and the world goes even darker behind Bucky’s eyelids than it already did. The ambient sounds all around him fade out, and there’s nothing – nothing except blackness. Or, rather, a dark metal grey. _Thick, cold metal. This fridge doesn’t have a window. Sometimes that's better. It’s more like a coffin._

Steve frowns, watching as Bucky's brow furrows, his jaw clamped tightly shut. 

_“Protocol 68 – the knockout. What code word did they want?”_  
“Sputnik. Get it? He’s a space cadet. Checked out years ago, apparently,”  
“He can’t hear, can he?”  
“He’s a zoo animal. Even if he could, he just stares back. He doesn’t understand,”  
“Alright. 68. Let me just-” 

_Static. Electricity. Static. Muscle relaxant. Electricity. Pins. Needles. Electricity. Static. Sputnik. Touches. Arch. Cut from neck to lumbar 3, 4. Pins in. Pins out._

Bucky keens, a small noise of agony escaping from between his gritted teeth. Steve looks at Wanda, alarmed: but she’s concentrating hard, her fingers strumming at imaginary strings, eyes glowing red, enraptured with whatever memory she’s accessed. 

_“He’s fighting it. He’s trying to stay awake,"_  
“I heard they induced a – well, not a dream state, more like – a trance. Probably holds bad memories,”  
“He’s not supposed to have any memories – dammit, call the red room back. We’re gonna need them after all,”  
“Should we close up?”  
“No. Just leave it for now. It's all sterile. We’ll be back soon,”  
“. . . Are you sure he can’t hear?”  
“You kidding? . . . Hey, wake up! Captain America's come to save you! . . . See, nothing. He’s basically brain-dead, except for what we put in,”  
“. . . Right,” 

_Hours lying face-down. Open wounds. Each readjustment a hot poker of undying agony. He cannot fall asleep._

_“What the . . .”_

_Footsteps._

_“. . . What have they done to you?”_

_Familiar voice. Footsteps. Sharp scratch._

_“Let’s see if we can get you asleep. I’ll be back. I promise,”_

_He can’t remember her coming back._

_“Checked out,”_

_“He can’t hear us, can he?”_

_“It doesn’t even move,”_

_“It’s asleep,”_

_“A sergeant, apparently,”_

_“Pathetic, really,”_

_“Don’t touch it, we’re not supposed to stimulate it at all, it could fuck with the programming,”_

_“It flinched!”_

_“Fuck. Call up the red room. Don’t let her in here again, though,”_

_“Test it again,”_

Bucky’s arm is whirring, but Steve doesn’t know why: it’s not moving, that he can see. He doesn’t realise all of Bucky’s muscles are clenching, tensing exhaustingly against phantom pains, phantom tortures, phantom hands that poke and prod. The arm is just echoing. 

_“Sputnik,”_

_“Why won’t it sleep?”_

_“What was that?”_

_“. . . It shouldn’t be able to speak – it shouldn't be able to think,”_

_“Who’s Steve?”_

_“Sputnik,”_

Bucky cries out despite his gritted teeth and clenched jaw, his eyes opening wide as he strains against Wanda’s control, rimmed with a glowing red. Steve starts forward, but Wanda shoots out a hand, forcing him to stay put. 

“I have it,” She grits out, sounding a little triumphant. 

_“That’s it. We did it. That’s one down,”_  
_“How are the scars on his back?”_  
_“They’re healing. They’re starting physical therapy right away, then we take the rods out. They were just for training anyway. His brain should fill in the rest. It’s an automatic response now,”_  
_“Will he even know what we did?”_  
_“It doesn’t know anything. It doesn’t even know its own name. It probably won’t even ask about the scars, if it sees them – hell, I don’t even think it’ll have scars. You’ve seen how freakishly fast it heals,”_  
_“Good – now, what’s the next one?”_

_The scene fades out, the agony passing, at last; the feeling of helplessness lingers after the memory fades, though, rattling around his seemingly empty head even as the faces disappear and swim back into obscurity, long dead, rotting in their peaceful, undisturbed graves. Bucky would kick their gravestones down, if he could. They stole his body from him. They stole his mind. They stole everything._

_The memory burns away like old film, and Bucky knows the programme is gone. One down._

Bucky visibly relaxes, his breathing evening out, and the only noises he makes are tiny, relieved vocalisations. His eyes slip shut, almost drowsy with the exhausting torture he’s just re-experienced. 

Steve, too, appears relieved, on Bucky’s behalf: “Is it over?” He asks hopefully. Wanda lets out a huff of laughter, her eyes remaining a glowing red.  
“That was just the first one. The most superficial. The other things they have forced him to do – that could still be set off – are worse, and deeper,” She explains, looking down at Bucky’s face with an expression of sadness. Steve can almost see, in her eyes, that she’s thinking of her brother. Seeing Bucky’s memories of Hydra must bring a lot back to her – despite the memories of torture, it’s probably the memories of going through everything by his side that affect her the most. 

“. . . How many programmes do you think there are?” Steve asks, bracing himself for the answer. Wanda looks at him, a grim expression on her face.  
“This is going to take hours. It is going to be longer, for him,” She nods at Bucky. 

Steve looks from her, back to Bucky: he looks so relaxed, mind apparently idling. Steve knows Wanda is searching for more programmed responses, which might in itself be distressing for Bucky, but for now – right now, he looks as if he could be sleeping. 

Steve sighs, and makes his way to the doorway: he doesn’t step through, though. He just stands there protectively: he wishes he could leave, but he can’t bring himself to. He doesn’t want to leave Bucky’s side. The feel of Bucky’s hot forehead against his skin prickles on his lips, a pleasant memory, and he knows he could never let him to go through this alone, even if he’s not aware that Steve’s there. 

So he’ll wait. 

“I’m here, if you need anything,” He says. She nods, as Bucky tenses again, whimpering. Her hands move, spider-like, casting further red chimeras from her fingertips to his head, and Steve knows she’s found another one. He won't give Bucky a mouth-guard - he's heard about the electro-shock procedures Bucky underwent, and knows that forcing that on him without consent could trigger something awful - but he still hopes Bucky doesn’t swallow too much blood, as he bites down on his bottom lip. Only time will tell. 

-

People come and go. Steve sends a message to everyone – Tony included, though he knows he probably doesn’t care, or at least won't want anything from them for a while, now – telling them what’s going on, mainly to distract himself from the awful noises that Bucky makes between making his bottom lip bleed.

Sam comes and stands by, watching, while Steve takes a short break after the first hour. Nat comes, bringing Steve a cup of coffee, saying Clint was asking after him on the phone. He smiles, but it’s not his usual beam. Not when he can hear Bucky’s trapped sobs from where they're standing. Nat looks very uncomfortable, too, in her understated way. 

Wanda tells him every time she gets a new one: the first few times she tells them what the trigger was, and what it caused – _‘Sputnik’_ was to knock him out, _cradle_ was to send him into a fully compliant trance, the scent of roses would make him kill everyone in the room – he asked her to stop after that, not being able to take it. _What if I’d bought him roses, instead of lilies, for his bedside table? What if I’d talked casually about Clint’s baby, and chosen the wrong word? What if I did something awful to him, or made him do something worse, completely by accident?_

It’s slow progress: he watches the day age, and the sun set, as Wanda continues her work. He wonders if Bucky will pass out from exhaustion, his mind unable to cope with this uniquely necessary form of torture, soon; whether Bucky will have to suffer much longer. Every minute, he wonders, and prays, that it will be the last minute Bucky will have to endure.

Finally, at around eleven o’clock in the evening, Wanda sits back, panting. She waves her hand at Bucky, and his eyelids lift groggily; his mouth opens, and he’s panting too. His tongue darts out to taste blood on his lips, both fresh and dried. 

“It is done,” She says, sounding sure. Steve steps into the room quickly, watching Bucky blink and shift, bringing up his right arm to throw across his face, shading his eyes from the dim light of the room, and trying to catch his breath. Steve’s ready with a glass of water for him that he’s had on standby for a little while, now. Bucky’s shaky right hand takes it – something tells Steve he doesn’t have the strength to even lift his left arm, right now, let alone be dexterous with it. 

“You’re sure?” Steve asks, knowing that’s what Bucky would want to know, if he were in any position to talk right now.

"I am certain,” Wanda says, looking down at Bucky with a weary confidence that Steve knows he can trust. “I . . . Almost set a few of the triggers into motion – but nothing came particularly close. Some of them were quite recent, but . . . He is free, now. I will provide you with a list of triggers, tomorrow, just in case," She reports. Steve nods once, not wanting to think about if she’d been any less careful with Bucky’s mind.  
“Thank you,” He says. She stands up, and begins to walk away. “Wanda-” He says, and she turns back with a curious expression. 

"Really. Thank you,” He reaffirms, and his words are heartfelt. She watches him for second or two, her eyes flitting back to Bucky as well, and she smiles sadly.  
“You are welcome, Captain,” 

She shuts the door on her way out. 

Steve turns to Bucky: his arm slumps back onto the bed sluggishly.  
“Hey – are you okay?” Steve asks. To his surprise, Bucky smiles, albeit not genuinely.  
“Peachy, you little punk,” He mutters. Steve huffs.  
“Yeah. You’re fine,” He says with a tone of mock-dismissal. Bucky’s fingers are shaking so badly that he almost drops the glass of water; Steve grabs it in time, and sets it on Bucky's bedside table.  
“I don’t feel so good,” Bucky states needlessly.  
“What happened?” Steve asks.  
“Can we talk about it tomorrow? . . . Or never?” Bucky asks, slurring his speech. Steve sighs, but gets up, retrieving a flannel anyway.  
“What you doing?” Bucky asks, eyeing the flannel with a look of suspicion when approached. Steve sees him cringe, backing away with what little strength he has. Steve looks at the flannel, and wonders. He knows a thing or two about torture. He's read some awful things, and seen worse.  
“. . . You’re covered in blood. Your lip,” Steve points out. Bucky relaxes a fraction, and lets Steve clean him up without comment. By the time he’s done, Bucky’s eyes keep slipping shut. 

Steve sets to work pulling off Bucky’s socks. “Anything to get me naked, huh, Rogers,” Bucky comments, eyes fluttering closed, with a weary smile.

When he goes for Bucky’s trousers, though, his eyes fly open; the metal arm finally rises up, gripping Steve’s wrist. There’s less subtlety in the grip than before – Bucky’s eyes are a little wider, too. All pretense of joking is cast quickly aside. 

“. . . I’m cold,” He says to Steve. Steve withdraws his hands.  
“Okay, Buck,” Steve replies quietly. He helps get Bucky under the blankets, amidst small half-hearted complaints from Bucky that he doesn’t, in fact, need to be ‘tucked in’. Steve smiles, at that, remembering the few times before the war that it was Bucky that got ill, not Steve – Steve repaid him in full for all his worrying, over the years, those times. 

Bucky’s out like a light, left hand still gripping to Steve’s hand, where he placed it a few moments before, even as he falls asleep. Steve smiles at the grip, and doesn’t pry his hand from it for hours.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying this. I'm adding tags as I go along, as long as I remember them!! If you catch something I didn't tag that I should've, then please let me know.

Bucky doesn’t wake up at the crack of dawn, like he usually does: Steve grows concerned, when he doesn’t rouse in response to him shifting and getting out of bed to go for his morning run. He checks his breathing, and his pulse, and decides he’s fine. He just needs time to recuperate, after yesterday. 

Steve’s not very talkative during his and Sam’s run. Sam doesn’t say anything, but Steve catches his sidelong glances, concern evident in his eyes. The truth is that, yesterday, and in particular last night, really rattled Steve: he hates seeing Bucky in pain, and powerless to do anything about it. What’s worse is the fact that he _knows_ Bucky’s used to it; this isn’t the first time Bucky’s been held powerless and subjected to complete, soul-consuming agony – no, that first time came before Steve rescued him back in the forties, from Zola’s first set of inhumane experiments. The first, and one of the last, successful attempts he made to save Bucky’s life. 

Steve puts one foot in front of the other, and thinks about how they must have consistently used those horrible techniques Wanda saw in Bucky’s brain to programme him; to pull Bucky out, and inject themselves in. They hard-wired it into him – Wanda mentioned spinal surgery – and they conditioned him. They did it all the time. They wiped his memory as a matter of procedure, he knows from the file Natasha obtained from Kiev. 

They must have done it pretty recently, too – he thinks that there’s no way Hydra could have programmed Bucky during his period of freedom from them; he wouldn’t have let his guard down around any Hydra agent long enough to allow himself to be conditioned. He’ll never blindly trust a handler, or fail to object to programming, ever again. 

So that recent program Wanda was talking about must have come before Bucky ran away from Hydra – it could have been put in days before Steve first saw his face, for the first time in seventy years. 

They were still ravaging his body, and his mind, just before that. This wasn’t some barbaric experiment from the forties, or fifties – this was a matter of routine, just a year ago. Sadistic, and cruel, and sickeningly _matter-of-fact_ for one of the people he loves most in this world. 

Steve comes to a stop, and Sam rushes past him, until he notices that Steve’s stopped: he turns around, panting, with a surprised expression on his face. 

“On your right, man – you alright?” He asks breathlessly, growing more worried as he watches Steve stare, unseeing, at the ground. 

Steve’s bent double, and breathing hard: he’s not exerted, but he’s having trouble catching his breath. He remembers, vividly, what it felt like to have an asthma attack. 

_How could they take him away? How could they do that to him? How could they take so much from him? How could they do it? How could they?_

“You thinking about last night?” Sam asks, approaching cautiously. “Speak to me, Steve,” He says, and places a hand on Steve’s heaving shoulder. Steve’s glad of the contact, to ground him. 

Gradually, he straightens up; his breathing grows less ragged. Sam’s hand remains on his shoulder, as he places his hands on his hips; he stares off into the distance, for a moment or two. This far out from the base, they’re surrounded by green: grassy pastures, and trees covered in bright green leaves. They glisten in the rising sun, like they don’t know that Steve’s trying not to fall apart. 

“I’m fine,” Steve says, nodding to Sam in thanks.  
“. . . Have you thought about seeing your therapist more?” Sam asks. Steve bites his lip, and looks into the distance, again; watches as the warm, gentle breeze tousles the grass. They've spoken frankly about this; Steve, being a man of the forties, always takes a little more convincing to seek help, than most - not that he retains that attitude when it comes to Bucky, and his other friends, checking up on them as often as he can. Sam thinks he's afraid he might lose one - either in battle, or after it, when the dust settles and everyone has no choice but to face what's left over. 

“I think I’m going to,” Steve says. 

Sam smiles sadly. They take a few minutes before continuing with their run. 

-

When Steve arrives back, he catches Bucky in the kitchen in a state of undress, rifling through the fridge: the radio is on, and Steve can hear Bucky mumbling along to a pop song. Bucky always liked music, the same way Steve liked art – but, rather than being discerning, he loves all sorts of music. The iPod Natasha gave to Steve is full of all sorts, given that Bucky borrows it so much. 

Steve announces his presence loudly, by clearing his throat. Bucky continues looking through the fridge, as he says, “Hey,”  
“Hey yourself – what, are all your shirts in the wash?” Steve asks, regarding Bucky’s bare back. He’s got sweat pants on, and Steve eyes a sweaty vest on the floor across the room. He’s been working out, clearly. 

Bucky just hums, shrugging slightly – that’s when Steve sees it: a long, thin set of stripes down Bucky’s spine, that he never noticed before. Compared to the other scars Bucky has – the ones from lacerations and stab wounds, the occasional gunshot wound, and, of course, the scars where his prosthesis meets his skin – they’re nondescript, and old. It makes sense: the operation they came from was to help implement the first programme they put into Bucky’s brain. Wanda told Steve that before he asked her to spare him the details – but now, he can’t look away. 

He gets up, and crosses the room, coming up behind Bucky with heavy footsteps:  
“Can I touch you?” Steve asks. He always asks, in one way or another - but in particular, the memory of Bucky flinching away when he reached to try and help him out of his trousers, last night, is fresh and horrific in his mind. 

Bucky freezes again – not out of fear, but out of confusion.  
“Uh – yeah, you can touch me,” Bucky says. He continues humming along to the tune on the radio.  
“Alright,” Steve says softly, and reaches out. He starts at the nape of Bucky’s neck, his fingers running in parallel to the processes that stick out from the centre of Bucky’s spine. The indentations, like tiny furrows, are more obvious up close: more obvious to touch than to see, but slightly lighter than Bucky’s already pale skin, they are clearly very old. Decades, in fact. 

Bucky’s stopped humming. His prosthesis grips the handle of the fridge tightly, and the other arm rests on one of the shelves inside the fridge, unmoving. He’s not really paying attention to food anymore. It was hard enough trying to decide what to eat – but now _this_. 

He feels the hairs on his arm rise, and he suppresses a shudder, as Steve’s fingers trace from the cervical, to the thoracic, to the lumbar vertebrae – the dip in his back fits the curve of Steve’s fingers, as they drag downwards. If Steve notices the goosebumps, he doesn’t say anything. 

“What – what are you doing?” Bucky asks, his speech stilted. He would sign, right now, but Steve wouldn’t see him.  
“You have scars,” Steve says, his voice distracted.  
“. . . I know,” Bucky says, considering all the operations he's had - not least on his arm, the implant inserted behind his ear for the control of his prosthesis, and the few very deep bullet wound scars that haven't healed. “Which ones are you . . . ?”

Steve doesn’t answer for a moment. He reaches the ends of the scars, and traces the area between clean, unmarred skin, and scar tissue, with his thumbs. He feels Bucky shiver, a couple of times – not from the cold, either. He can feel the minute bumps in his skin, now, from where the contact is causing him to experience frisson, of some sort. Steve notices the way Bucky leans into his touch, and places his palms fully against the skin of Bucky’s lower back. Bucky leans back and against him; Steve lets his hands slip to either side of Bucky’s waist, to make them more comfortable. 

Bucky leans backwards, and before he knows it, Bucky’s back is pressed up to his front. He can hear Bucky’s controlled breathing, from this position; he can feel it. He remembers he was asked a question, after a few more moments. 

“Ones from a procedure Wanda mentioned. It . . . involved spinal surgery,” Steve says cautiously. 

Bucky blinks, and becomes rigid to Steve’s touch, and Steve knows something has changed like a cold snap. 

Bucky’s sweating. He’s cold, but he’s sweating. He remembers being face-down on a cold table, sweating but trying to shiver, his back completely numb, unable to move his limbs – _they’re doing something to his spine, and he’s so cold, he can taste the salt of his own tears-_

Bucky twists away from Steve’s touch, sharply, and slams the fridge door: Steve’s hands fly away as if Bucky’s skin was burning them, and he holds them up and away where Bucky can see them, a reticent expression on his face, and an apology already forming on his lips. However, Bucky has other ideas: he lunges forwards, gripping Steve tightly in an embrace. Steve’s warm – _Steve’s always so warm, now_. 

_He’s not cold, and he’s not alone, and the wounds have healed, and he’s free._

“-alright. You’re alright,” Steve is saying, and Bucky can feel him stroking his hair, like he does when Bucky gets really bad. Bucky’s not really bad right now – this is nothing, compared to the months before this – but it’s not good. It’s just one more thing to work through with Dr. Franklin. 

“I know,” Bucky says, and sniffs. He withdraws slightly, moving his head from its position buried in Steve’s chest after a few seconds, and pressing his forehead to Steve’s. “. . . I know,” He repeats, his eyes shut for a moment. “I know,”  
“Good,” Steve says simply. They stay like that, for a few minutes. 

“. . . I’ll make you an omelette,” Steve says. His voice is so quiet, it’s no more than a reverent whisper – it makes Bucky chuckle, a seemingly inappropriate bubble of laughter bursting up from inside of him at the ridiculousness of Steve’s tone, given what he said. It’s a release of tension; Steve smiles too.  
“That would be great,” Bucky agrees, smiling too. Steve kisses him on the cheek, and moves away, going to the fridge to get the ingredients. 

The two of them know Bucky probably won’t go near the fridge for days, now. They can deal with it, though. This is the road to recovery, and they’ve gotten through worse. 

-

Around a week later, they give attending a team meeting together another shot. 

This time around, Bucky strikes up an easy conversation with Sam and Nat, while Steve chats with Wanda. 

When Sam asked Bucky for a list of modifications to his prosthesis that he would like made, he suddenly forgot every single problem he’s had with it – from the glitching, to the overheating, to the occasional problems with submersion in water – so the list he handed over was a little short. But he consulted his journal, and rang him up, with extra things. Sam said he was going to hand the list to Tony, who’d make a new arm, at one point – the whole thing was a game of Chinese whispers, as Sam had called it. Bucky just hummed. 

Steve had a list of his own: this one was from Wanda; a list of stimuli and responses that she managed to coax out of Bucky, that night; a list of surgeries, and trigger words, and scents that would drive him to do awful things. Steve keeps the list in the draws beside their bed. He tries not to look at it more than once a day, or think about how close he might have come to hurting Bucky again; making Bucky hurt others, just like Hydra did. 

Tony is late. Steve thinks he might not come – but then they all hear the tell-tale sound of pieces of armour flying off, as he approaches from outside, and they know to take their seats. They hear multiple voices outside – Tony’s speaking with someone. 

Bucky sits down beside Steve; they all take the same seats they did last time and, despite the fact it ended badly, Bucky somehow feels comforted by the routine. 

Tony swans in, saying –  
“Wait, how many cars are they charging me for? – because I’m sure some of those were on Thor. He wouldn’t mind breaking the bank of Asgard to help a _fellow warrior_ with the bill - right?" Tony says, speaking into a tablet. Steve can just about make out Rhodey’s face, from where he’s sitting. He sits up a little straighter.  
“I don’t care who’s paying, Tony, all I know is I didn’t get there til half way through the battle, and I stayed away from people’s shit – so I'm not paying. And neither is the US government," Rhodey reminds him. 

"Not even for one? C’mon, buddy, I gave you that armour. You can give me one car,” Tony insists.  
“I’m already cleaning up your mess. I’ll buy you a car, if you wanna come here and clean up after yourself?”  
“I don’t know. Guys? Does that sound like a good offer?” Tony asks with a smirk, sitting down at the head of the table, and promptly putting his feet up. 

He taps the tablet against the table, and a hologram of Rhodey’s face appears in the centre. 

“I wasn’t even there. Neither was Bucky,” Sam points out, arms folded.  
“You’re right – you weren’t . . . You gonna introduce me?” Rhodey asks, scanning the room, until he spots Bucky. 

There’s a short pause, during which Sam looks at Tony, clearly wanting him to introduce his friend – finally, Tony acquiesces, “Barnes. This is War Machine – Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes,” 

Automatically, without realising what he’s doing, Bucky salutes the hologram, sitting up very straight; Rhodey looks surprised, but ultimately pleased. Steve recognises the expression: it’s the same one he gets when he’s just told a War Machine story to a bunch of impressed onlookers. 

But Bucky looks a little queasy – Steve can almost read on his face, how tense he is, to feel his body respond automatically to something. Reflexes, in his case, are rarely without danger, or negative side-effects. 

“Now that’s what I like to see. At ease, soldier,” Rhodey says, half laughing. “It’s . . . Nice to meet you, Sergeant. Via hologram, anyway," Rhodey says. “You can call me Rhodey,” 

Bucky nods once. 

“Anyway. I have to go, now, because not all of us can afford to sit around in meetings all day in a secret spar retreat,” He points out.  
“For the last time. It’s not a spar retreat,” Steve protests.  
“It might as well be. I helped design and build that place in weeks - whereas this place is still wrecked, and it’s been months,” Rhodey says, bitterly. Steve notes the guilt in his expression – and, as he said, he wasn’t even there for most of the fight. He shifts slightly, where he sits, guilt heavy in his own chest, too. 

“. . . Got to go. And Tony, get your damn feet off the table, it probably cost about a thousand dollars,”  
“Two thousand,” Tony dismisses, and Steve doesn’t know if he’s joking.  
“Whatever. War Machine out,” Rhodey says, and the transmission ends. 

“He looked well,” Natasha says, looking mildly impressed. “Repair work is hardgoing, compared to tearing things down,"  
“We should be out there,” Wanda says, her vision cast downward.  
“You’ve done enough. You can do better work with us,” Steve tells her, his voice soft. He knows all about her guilt, by now. “The more of us out there, the more they have to provide for. And the less we can do here,”  
“Speaking of,” Tony says, sliding his finger across his tablet screen, and projecting scanned documents for the group. They cast a white glow on everyone, as they read them.  
“. . . Ultron,” Natasha says, grimacing. “How’s it going with the lawyers?”  
“Just awful, thank you for asking,” Tony says. “I thought I’d remind you of that. You know, just in case you thought my plate wasn’t full enough. My cup is running over with shit,” He says. Bucky smirks, despite himself. Tony probably wouldn't want to know how much like Howard he sounds, sometimes.

"Got a problem?” Tony asks him, annoyed. Bucky freezes, his eyes sliding towards Steve.  
“. . . No,” Bucky says. There’s suddenly a palpable tension in the room, just like the meeting before.  
“Great. Because _Team Cap_ over there has been getting on me to make you a whole new arm for about a week now. You know – so you can be a _real boy_ or whatever,” Tony says, his tone dismissive. Bucky feels himself bristle, though he's aware on a higher level that he shouldn’t rise to anything the genius says.  
“Tony,” Steve says, warning in his voice.  
“I’m fine the way I am,” Bucky says, though his voice is cold. “Don’t put yourself out,”  
“No, no – I’m sure your pals would yell at me some more if I stopped now. Some gratitude would be nice, though,” Tony says bitterly. 

Bucky looks him in the eye, and deadpans, “Thanks,” 

Steve steps in: “Is there anything else you want to discuss, Tony?” He asks through gritted teeth. If he’s honest, he thinks Bucky probably handled that better than he would have, himself. 

Tony stares Bucky down, a little more, before adding: “Not really. The government are out for my blood. They want to know why I made Ultron in the first place,”  
“Why was that again?” Natasha mutters.  
“Oh, you know – keeping the whole word safe. Privatising world peace,” Tony  
“God forbid Tony Stark doesn’t make money from something,” Wanda mutters in Sokovian. Bucky smirks.  
“You wanna share with the class?” Tony asks. Wanda just smiles at him. 

“If you’re done,” Natasha says, looking with a disapproving gaze at both Bucky and Tony. “I’ve got some field work for us. Seems like AIM aren’t quite as dead and buried as we wanted,” She says, pressing a button on one of her bracelets, and sending data to the projectors; the Ultron inquiry documents are replaced with schematics for some kind of base. 

“AIM? – god, I thought this day couldn’t get any worse,” Tony comments.  
“There’s a couple of rogue factions, from what I’ve found, right here in the US. SHIELD’s files threw up some red flags for me, and I decided to check them out. Abandoned facilities out in the Arizona desert have been re-appropriated as AIM bases, where they’re attempting to start up with research on extremis again,”  
“We’ve gotta get them to stop,” Sam surmises.  
“Right. Forcefully. Everyone involved with AIM was presumably involved with the plot to kill the president – and they’re all bad news, anyway,”  
“So we go in and clear it out,” Steve says.  
"That’s what I’m suggesting. Sooner, rather than later – we need to make sure we get there before they perfect the extremis formula, again. Intel suggests the formula was lost with Killian, but one of his goons has gotta know something, for them to think they can rebuild like this,” 

“I’ve wanted a good assault mission for a while now – we haven’t had a good one since the Hydra base . . .” Sam says, his sentence trailing off; he casts his gaze to Bucky, but he’s only half looking. The holographic screen is showing him the horrors that AIM got up to last time they emerged and fought Tony. He catches the photographs, and silent clips of the test subjects, screaming and burning up, that SHIELD gathered when they took in AIM’s assets. They thought that would be the end of their story. 

“. . . Human trials,” He mutters.  
“If my databanks are correct,” The Vision says, their voice surprisingly soft, “The subjects used were volunteers. Ex-military, with life-altering injuries,”  
“Amputations?” Bucky asks, looking into their mechanical eyes.  
“Correct,” They reply. Bucky’s fists clench under the table.  
“When are we going?” He asks, his voice cold once more. 

“We?” 

Everyone looks around, to Tony – he’s watching Bucky, a derisive expression on his face.  
“Seriously. We need to talk about the roster for this mission,”  
“Falcon’s in. Air support’s always necessary, for stragglers – Widow, for stealth,” Steve explains. “Wanda can take out rows and rows of soldiers at once, without a single fatality outcome. The Vision – air support too. And Bucky – well-” Steve looks at him, half-smiling as he says, “He’s good at everything,”  
“Except flying,” Falcon points out. Bucky elbows him in the side, and he elbows him back.  
“You sure he’s ready for this kind of thing?” Tony asks, expression doubtful.  
“First of all, you were fine talking to Bucky earlier directly, so why don’t you ask him yourself?”  
“Because the guy has said about five words to me, and he clearly hates me. I don’t know if I can work with someone like that,”  
“You’re an asshole. I’ve worked with assholes before. Doesn’t mean I hate you,” Bucky tells him.  
“You hated my parents though, huh,” 

Suddenly Bucky feels as if he’s shrinking. He feels smaller than he can remember feeling in his living memory, and he feels awful – the guilt almost crushes him, as Tony’s words echo around his head like everything else has been removed, for a few seconds. He wonders if what he’s implying is true: _did he hurt Howard? . . . Was he involved in Tony’s parents’ deaths?_

“Enough – Tony, you cannot just – _disrupt_ the whole meeting with this-” Natasha chastises him, her eyes trained on Bucky, whose expression is frozen, still angry, but whose complexion has become much paler than before.  
“Why not? If we’re discussing who we want on the roster – well, I don’t know if I want him on the team, if he killed my folks. Can’t put it any plainer than that, Widow,”  
“You wanna do this _now_? Rather than in _therapy_?” Sam emphasises yet again, taken aback.  
“Sure. Let’s do it now. Wanda – you’ve been in Barnes’ head. Did he kill my parents?” Tony asks, his tone almost nonchalant. 

Her irises are rimmed with red light, and her expression is stormy, as she looks back at him.  
“Do you actually want to know the answer, Stark?” She hisses.  
“Sweetheart, I’ve wanted to know the answer to that question since before you were born,” 

She leans forward a little and narrows her eyes, as she tells him: “Tough luck. I did not look. But seeing as you basically got my brother killed, we will put aside our differences for now, yes?” 

Tony’s mouth shuts with an audible click, when he hears that. He looks over Wanda’s shoulder and to the Vision, who eyes him closely, wondering what he will do next with mild interest. It’s clear from their expression, though, that they are unhappy with how things are progressing. 

“I’m not sure I can. If he goes on this mission, I’m not going,” Tony says, folding his arms. Steve almost misses Natasha’s eye roll. He looks at Bucky, a question in his eyes – he signs, _do you mind if I say something?_ Bucky nods.  
“Bucky needs this. He needs to feel useful. He’s ready,” Steve asserts.  
“And besides – you’re always telling us how busy you are, Tony,” Natasha points out. 

Bucky’s hand creeps up unnoticed onto the table top, where it takes Steve’s hand, in a silent gesture of thanks; his thumb strokes Steve’s palm in a gentle, soothing motion, that helps Steve as much as it does him, to calm down and feel safe. It’s a little bit too much like a war zone in the room. 

“Fine. Get out of here with the angsty killing machine – I’m busy all day anyway. The sooner you all clear out, the better. I need to go over these files before six,”  
“What’s at six?” Natasha asks.  
“Meeting. You know – actual work, that isn’t just hitting things, and crying away the pain,” Tony says sarcastically. Bucky’s hand tightens on Steve’s, but not too painfully – he remembers the way he gripped the apple in his hand, and finds that the care in the light touch his prosthesis can produce comes more naturally with Steve. 

The glint of light off the metal draws Tony’s eyes. Bucky catches him looking, and makes eye contact just for a second. 

Tony picks up his things, and leaves the room, without another word. 

“Well,” Steve says, standing up; Bucky releases his hand, and follows his lead, just as the others do. “That’s it, I guess. We move out later – night-time raid, wheels up at 19:00 hours,” He receives a full set of nods of approval and so, glancing at Bucky, he issues the command: “Avengers assemble,”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to brag but I think I may have told the future with the beginning of this fic. I don't know. Guess I've got to see Ant-Man now to find out. RIP 
> 
> Thanks SO much for all the love you guys have given me so far. You're the literal best wtf I do not deserve!! Sorry for any mistakes in this chapter, I'm moving so I've had very little time these past few days for proof-reading (rest assured I've proof-read it a billion times before though). 
> 
> If you're into that kind of thing, I made a playlist for this version of civil war which you can hear on 8tracks, it's at http://8tracks.com/greatatboats/civil-war - not to brag (again), but it's a gem. 
> 
> Enjoy this!! Be assured in the knowledge that I know exactly where this story is going, I have a hugely detailed plan, I write every day, and I love writing this so much (not least because of you guys). I love you all!!

They land under cover of darkness: Bucky watches the rest of the team, following their example, as they unbuckle themselves from their seats and prepare for battle. His right hand, where it was clutching onto Steve’s hand – a remnant from six months ago, that neither of them ever really wanted to abandon – loosens up, letting Steve’s hand go. Steve smiles at him, and dons his helmet. 

Bucky doesn’t have a helmet. Idly, he scratches at his face: he’s got thick stubble, now, that Steve never complains about, despite the fact Bucky inevitably rubs up against him some, when they’re sleeping in the same bed. He feels strange, to be preparing for combat, without the step of adding his mask: sure, it was more like a muzzle, but he sometimes gets the horrible feeling that he misses it. It's hard to understand, but he does, a little; so does Steve, he knows, catching his side-long glance. He opens his mouth to say something – to offer help, to offer a mask, anything – but then thinks better of it. Bucky feels strange without his mask. But he’s never going back. 

But, since it’s a night-time mission, he painted his eyes with black combat paint before he came out: it helps him remain hidden. Steve smiled, when he saw it. Bucky doesn’t really know why; Steve never said anything.  
“Game plan?” Natasha asks Steve.  
“We land outside the perimeter. I want Falcon and the Vision up top – gotta get rid of the threat of floodlights, or we’ll be sitting ducks on the ground. AIM might be thinned out, but they’re still paramilitary. A lot of veterans in their ranks,” Steve says, and is met by a round of nods. Not mechanical, blindly following, as Bucky has seen – independent, with thoughtful expressions. They’re cohesive not because they are a hive-mind, but because they cooperate. They chose this. 

“Widow, Wanda – I want you on the control rooms. Anywhere that could organise an evacuation, I want it gone, and the occupants incapacitated, so they can’t send out signals to any kind of cavalry. I don’t think this is the only splinter cell we’re going to tackle,” Steve continues.  
“What about you?” Natasha asks, looking from Steve to Bucky; they lock eyes, but her gaze isn’t judgemental. If anything, she looks concerned. If  
only very slightly. 

"We’re going to work our way through the building. There are people who need rounding up, and relocating. We can’t be sure that all the volunteers were willing,” Steve points out.  
“So no fatalities?” Sam asks. Steve knows he’s not asking for himself.  
“Right,” Steve nods. “Tranq guns only. Feel free to take em out, but we’re looking for no deaths here,” Steve asserts. 

Natasha and Wanda nod; the Vision doesn’t respond but approaches the door to the jet, hitting the button to open the door.  
“Person of little words – like usual,” Sam says, smirking a little as he follows them. The wind buffets the team, as the doors open. Everyone grabs something to hold onto – Wanda grabs onto Natasha unceremoniously, not being as used to flying in the quinjet as the rest of them, despite having been on several missions, now. She scowls, glaring at the Vision.  
“More warning, next time,”  
“I am sorry, Wanda. Shall we?” They ask, turning to Sam.  
“Ready,” 

They’re out the door in seconds, and Steve watches them fly for a moment: the Vision’s colours are dulled, for the mission, and Sam’s got his stealth suit on, ready to take the base by surprise. Once he’s sure they’re clear, he hits the button to close the door, leaving the jet even quieter. 

“Everybody ready?” Steve asks, looking around; yet again, his team nod. He turns separately to Bucky, who nods once, but with a sense of certainty that’s comforting to Steve. He can almost feel the others relax, looking at that.  
“Maria. Take us down,” Steve calls to Maria, who’s agreed to be their pilot for today. She’s their cavalry, this time around.  
“Sure thing, boss,” Maria says; they descend, as quietly as possible, to the outer perimeter fence around the base. 

Once they’ve landed, they make their way out as quickly as possible: Natasha shoots ahead, using one of her batons to cut a hole in the fence big enough for a super-soldier, or two, to fit through, at a push. She slips through, pulling Wanda through behind her, and Bucky watches as they run, stealthy as possible, to the nearest building – the one Natasha’s schematics have told her contains the first guards they’ll need to take out, to avoid being detected immediately. 

Steve heads through the fence ahead of Bucky, protective instinct kicking in: Bucky smirks, and Steve can make it out even under his war paint, as he helps pull him through the gap in the fence.  
“What you smirking about, Barnes?” Steve asks quietly, as they break into a run, avoiding floodlights, and heading for a hiding spot. They need to wait for Sam and the Vision to take out the lights, before they can advance.  
“Nothin’,” Bucky counters. “Just you. You this protective during the war, Stevie?”  
“. . . Not of you. I knew you could look after yourself,” Steve defends himself. They crouch behind a nearby truck, peaking over the hood to the roof of the main building, up ahead of them. They can’t make out much, because of the brightness  
of the floodlights. 

"I remember when I had to tuck you up in bed. Almost caught your death six times a year,” Bucky murmurs. “Made me read to you. You loved the classics,”  
“You remember that, huh,” Steve mutters, and even though he isn’t looking at him, Bucky can see the corner of his mouth pull up; hear the smile in his voice.  
“I do. Sure as I remember having ten fingers,” He says. 

Steve looks down at him with a vaguely horrified expression. Bucky just smirks. Steve shoves him, just a little. 

“Focus, would you?” Steve asks.  
“If you do,” Bucky retorts. “And don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” He hisses, as Steve ducks back down. It's not a lie: The adrenaline of the situation, and the chance to let some frustration and aggression out in a hostile environment, feels almost too good. He missed being dangerous, like this. It's probably not a good thing that he feels himself, out here - but then, he can see from Steve's face that he's into it, too. It's not a crime to need a purpose. He just wishes his was less violent, to prevent him from hurting people around him; disappointing or scaring Steve. 

He refocuses. Clearly, the fact they haven’t heard any shots fired, means that none of the team have been spotted yet. 

Suddenly, the floodlights drop: the two of them are up in synchrony within a second, and sprinting to the main building. They burst in through the front door, using Steve’s shield as a battering ram, and tranq the personnel they see within seconds. Bucky’s aim is true as he remembers – even with the limited practise he’s gotten, of late, focussing on his physical and mental recovery, instead – but this time, he’s got Steve to back up his flank, defending him against a rain of bullets. If it wasn’t clear that the personnel here were ex-military, then the swiftness to which they respond to Steve and Bucky would give it away. They’re _fast_.

Steve throws his shield, taking out a soldier reaching for his radio. He studies the room, just as Bucky is doing: the corridor splits off in two different directions, and once they’ve taken out the few personnel stationed behind the door, they face the decision of which way to go. 

“What now?” Bucky says, wiping the blood from his metal knuckles, as a knife-wielding assailant falls to the floor, nose smashed.  
“I don’t know. They don’t signpost these places as well as you’d like,” Steve says sarcastically.  
“ _These places_. Bad guy bases?” Bucky asks. Steve nods. “How’d you find your way around Hydra bases, then?” He asks. Steve grimaces.  
“. . . Practise,” Steve says.  
“Me too,” Bucky admits. “They’re always the same,” 

Steve just nods. He looks around, thinking about Natasha's schematics, takes a deep breath, and says,  
“One way has to lead to where they’re keeping the subjects. The other way is probably where the leaders of the operations are – this seems like a large enough building,” Steve says.  
“Right. It would be best to split up – cover more ground,” Bucky says, loading his clip with fresh darts. Steve looks at Bucky, getting a measure of him; he sees nothing but a capable, well-oiled machine. But one that’s human, at least. This is what Bucky’s _for_ – that’s what Bucky’s told him, time and time again. His therapist, and Steve, and Bucky’s friends have all taken a lot of trouble to explain that this isn’t _all_ he’s for. 

But Steve has to admit: he’s good at this. And, in some way, he enjoys it; just like Steve does. Doing good, and in Bucky’s case, _atoning_. Most importantly, Steve isn’t seeing any sign of the broken Bucky he’s had to help pick up the pieces of, these last six months. His mental health problems are still clearly present, but he's coping. 

So he agrees. 

“Okay. You go that way – keep in contact over coms, and-”  
“Find something important. Destroy it,” Bucky interrupts. Steve half-smiles.  
“You got it. Stay safe,” Steve says.  
“You too,” Bucky says, jogging off down the corridor in the opposite direction to Steve. 

He’s glad Steve doesn’t have to see him hurt more people – at least, not right now. He’s not sure he likes showing Steve the more brutal, visceral side of him.  
As he travels, panicked men and women come across him; they accost him from all angles, clearly worried and in a frenzy, given that the base is under attack, now. They may be ex-military, but this operation isn’t complete, and it isn’t well-organised – not anymore, at least, if Natasha’s intel is right. And, as usual, it’s turning out to be right.

He mainly makes use of the tranq guns, firing with both hands; but as more and more soldiers come at him, he gets into it with his hands, beating them bloody; breaking their bones and knocking them out, until they aren’t a problem anymore. The more hostiles he comes across – the more bullets he blocks with his left arm, the more knife attacks he dodges, the more near-misses he avoids – the more he knows he’s getting somewhere important. 

He doesn’t realise how important til he bursts through a set of double doors – one of many – and finds himself suddenly in a bright, white environment; there are men and women in white coats all around him, throwing their hands up, clearly terrified. His fingers twitch on the triggers of his guns, but he doesn’t shoot. Something tells him not to shoot. 

He casts his gaze around – _the sodium bar lights, the chrome tools on the walls, the metal tables_ – and feels a head-rush the likes of which he hasn’t experienced in a long, _long_ time begin to assault him. His hands shake, and he finds himself focussing on a drip of blood on the floor by his feet, for a few seconds. He swears he can _smell_ it. He doesn’t realise it’s from a cut to his forehead: a knife too close to killing him, but not close enough, back in the corridor that’s now lined with breathing, unconscious bodies. He feels as if he can hear them – hear _all_ of them. Them, and everything that was done to him. The drills on the wall aren’t on, but he can hear them. 

“Please – please don’t hurt us-” One of the scientists says, and his head jerks upwards. They’re still clearly terrified of him. He doesn’t know any Hydra scientist that would be this afraid. They would never surrender so easy; they’d already be trying to condition him, by now. This isn’t a Hydra lab. This is not where he was unmade. 

He thinks for a second, before indicating with one of his guns that they should stand to one side: this lab is small, but at the end of the room he can see a large, heavy metal door. And he knows what’s behind it.  
“. . . Open that,” He says to the scientists. They all look at one another, not moving; none of them obey. So he shoots one of them in the neck: he drops to the floor, unconscious in a second, and the rest of them make noises of shock and fear.  
“He’ll be fine. We’re here to take you in. Open the fridge,” He demands. This time, a woman separates from the crowd, and obeys his command. Making no sudden movements, she types a combination into the key pad, and it shifts open. Giving her a warning look, he steps through the threshold, keeping the code he’s just seen in mind – just in case. 

His fears are confirmed, and he feels his blood drain into his boots, as he looks around: tables and tables and tables, each with a body on, each hooked up to medication; each sleeping, unaware, in the cold of the stasis chamber. Some are missing limbs, some are disfigured – some simply have a haunted expression, even in their slumber. He can plainly see what they’ve been through; they're being stored in here in case they overheat, or combust. 

It’s obvious that they’re all _candidates_ , subjected to whatever untested versions of the extremis formula are being tested by this base. He wonders if they asked for this – if they _knew_ this is what would happen, if they did. He wonders if they knew they would become nothing more than _assets_ , if they agreed to experimentation, for personal reasons. 

Slowly, he holsters one of his guns, and brings a hand up to the coms device in his right ear.  
“Cap . . . Cap, it’s – it’s me,” He says, and even to himself, his voice sounds hollow.  
“Bucky? I’ve found the centre of operations. Sam’s come down to help me clear the place out – what have you found?” He asks, clearly between hitting people.  
“. . . Hundreds,” Bucky bites out, “Hundreds in a fridge – they’re all, they . . . Just come and see,” Bucky says, trying to use his words, though he’s having trouble concentrating.

Suddenly, from behind him, there’s a slam: he whips around, and sees that someone shut the door; he beats at it, tugging at the mechanism, but it’s going to take a _lot_ of focus to oppose it with just his left arm, and no live firearms. There’s no keypad to unlock the chamber from the inside. He’s trapped. 

He completely lost focus, and now – now, he’s trapped in here, he’s cold, he’s _freezing_ , and he’s just where he was before – he keeps beating at the door, yelling for them to let him out, _I can’t – I can’t – I can’t –_

He keeps yelling, screaming, til his throat is raw; keeps smashing at the door, denting it, until his right fist is misshapen and bloodied. At one point, his left arm sparks: he’s glad for the light, and the warmth, for just a second, before it completely freezes up: it locks, frozen up at a 90 degree angle, fingers splayed, unyielding. He can’t move it – the cold is interfering – something he’s sure Hydra had a hand in, in terms of keeping him still and subdued, for stasis. 

He can’t get out. He can’t escape. He’s trapped, and he can hear footsteps growing quieter, even outside the fridge door. 

_I can’t be here. Don’t make me stay here. I don’t want to be one of them. Not again._

-

When Steve turns up a little while later, he comes across a group of scientists who are trying to flee, arms full of samples and papers: luckily he brought Sam, and the Vision, with him; they round them up, leading them away and into custody, like they have with the masterminds of the operation. Well – _masterminds_ is a little strong, in Steve’s opinion. They certainly weren’t the smartest bad guys he’s even gone toe-to-toe with. AIM’s standards, it would seem, have really gone downhill, in recent years. 

He notices, though, that Bucky’s not with the scientists: he’s let them slip, which isn’t like him, at all. He’s efficient, Steve knows – hell, he’s seen as much, today. But apparently, he just let them go; let them try to escape. 

He gets all the way to the lab, without finding a single sign of Bucky: by now, all is silent, with everyone having been escorted into SHIELD custody, and away on the carriers they’ve sent out to the desert to bring them in for questioning and trial. The silence unnerves Steve – surely, Bucky must be somewhere inside? He doubts he’d have left without them. 

But then he sees the fridge door, and he remembers Bucky’s words – and his stomach drops. _Oh, no._

“Bucky!” He calls, approaching the fridge at a run, and observing the locking mechanism, and the keypad. He hits what looks like an intercom button, and ventures, “You in there, Buck?” 

He hears a banging on the other side of the door. 

“. . . I can bust the door, I think. I can use my shield, if you help on the other side, with your arm?” He proposes. He hears a series of taps and bangs from the other side of the door – it takes him a few seconds to recognise them as Morse code: _cannot move arm (STOP). Have key code (STOP)._

“. . . Great. What’s the code?” 

Bucky rhythmically taps the code out on the other side of the door, and Steve types it in. The lock opens, and Steve heaves the huge door open. He immediately sees what Bucky was so shaken by, when he opens the door: he casts his gaze around, and sees the horror show that AIM have set up, all around him. It's like a morgue, or a mausoleum, for the living. 

Soldiers – ex-military test-subjects, no doubt – with missing limbs; some with limbs in various stages of regrowth. There are even some with prostheses that don’t look too dissimilar to the older, less advanced ones Steve’s seen in Bucky’s files. He wonders darkly whether AIM have any connections with Hydra; if Hydra have had any input, here.  
_Cut off one head._

To one side of him, Bucky is standing looking down at the face of one _volunteer_ : she’s young, for a soldier, but it’s clear that she is one, nonetheless. She has black hair, cut very short, like the rest of them. When Steve approaches and looks down at her from the same angle as Bucky is, he notices that she looks familiar – he can’t quite place her, until he looks up at Bucky’s solemn, frowning face. 

_She looks a little like one of Bucky’s younger sisters – the oldest one. Rebecca._

“Bucky?” He asks, signposting the fact he’s going to touch him on the shoulder quite a lot, before reaching out. But Bucky shies away, not wanting to be touched. Steve notices that he’s got his left arm folded into him, bent 90 degrees, as if it’s trapped in some invisible sling.  
“Your arm-”  
“It’s the cold. It doesn’t work in a fridge. They made sure,” Bucky says, and his speech is stifled.  
“. . . How long have you been here?” Steve asks, frowning – he’s seriously worried now. Bucky hasn’t looked up from the unnamed soldier’s face. He doesn’t reply.  
“Are you-”  
“We should go,” Bucky says, turning away, and walking out of the room. “Get SHIELD to deal with this,” He adds, as he leaves the room. Steve frowns, decoding what Bucky really meant – _he can’t stand to be in there, any longer_. He takes one last look down at the soldier: her missing legs below the knees, her thin frame, her lips – they do look kinda like Bucky’s – and turns away. 

SHIELD will find out who she is – whether she chose this for herself. He highly doubts she did, though: AIM manipulated hundreds of people into being their lab rats, and getting themselves inadvertently blown up in the process, Steve knows from the files. Whatever they chose, it wasn’t _this_ – lying in a medically induced coma, with poisons working through their systems, while their limbs try and fail to grow back, at length. 

He turns away, unable to look at the soldier anymore; wanting to seek help for her, and all the others, as quickly as possible. He sees Bucky walking away, stalking tensely like a riled, caged animal, and knows that he might have pushed Bucky too much, this time. This could have set him back – and ultimately, it’ll be Steve’s fault, if Bucky is hurt by this. 

All he can do now is apologise. 

-

The ride back is tense, at least for Steve and Bucky. None of the others really know what went on, in that lab; in the freezer. Sure, they know that SHIELD are still back there, taking the test subjects back to a SHIELD-run facility, for quarantine and recovery, as well as questioning. But they weren't there to see how AIM were treating them; how Bucky reacted. 

“It’s good they hadn’t succeeded in making extremis stick,” Natasha comments on the other side of the jet, as she removes her bracelets. It’s largely quiet, aside from the hum of the engines, and the quiet conversation.  
“Those people,” Wanda says, shaking her head; her eyes are far away, and Bucky can tell she’s remembering what they looked like, wheeled out of that building on stretchers. “I hope that they will be okay,”  
“Their chances of survival are extremely good. They will remain without their missing limbs, as the extremis formula exists at this point in a non-active, insufficient form. But they will live largely normal lives,” The Vision says. Bucky catches their eye, and nods – it’s almost a thank-you. He’s glad to hear that. 

“. . . Bucky, are you-” Steve begins quietly. Bucky doesn’t look at him; he falters, and pauses, before beginning again: “. . . I’m sorry that happened, back there,” 

Bucky’s hand tightens on his hand, momentarily, before removing itself to Bucky’s lap, and out of Steve’s grasp. Steve gulps, willing Bucky to look at him, but he won’t.  
“It’s not your fault. I wasn’t strong enough,” Bucky mutters. He’d use another language so the others don’t understand, but he can’t remember which ones Steve knows; he’s pretty sure most of them are multilingual, anyway.  
“You were plenty strong. I didn’t mean to leave you in the – _there_ ,”  
“I’m used to being in the fridge. What’s a few minutes, compared to decades?” He asks simply. The matter-of-fact way he asks makes Steve balk.  
“You shouldn’t have had to-”  
“I can cope, Steve,” Bucky interrupts him, finally looking up at him. “I’m not made of glass, okay? – I just – need some time to think. Reflect. Thaw out,” Bucky says, and he shifts his left arm at the shoulder. The remains of his arm, where it’s trapped inside the prosthesis, for now, shifts too. The arm doesn’t move, no matter how much he tries to manipulate it with the mental implant behind his left ear. It remains bent, and held in towards his body. 

“. . . Okay. I just thought, with what you’ve been through recently . . .” Steve says. Bucky sighs.  
“It was tough,” He admits. “But I’m made for combat. What just happened was bad, but it wasn’t enough to put me out of action, okay? – At least, not mentally. The arm will take a day or so, I think,” He recalls.  
“Alright,” Steve accepts, bowing his head slightly. “I’m sorry,”  
“Would you stop apologising? You’re like a broken record, Steve. You don’t need to apologise. Not for any of it,” Bucky tells him, for the millionth time. Franklin told him to let Steve apologise, and just accept it, because it might offer closure to both of them – but at least, this time around, there’s nothing to apologise for. Steve couldn’t have known what Bucky would find, when he went right instead of left. He couldn’t have known that Bucky would end up trapped in a fridge, again. 

There’s a long pause, during which Bucky observes everyone else in the jet: they’re trying not to look, or listen, but clearly they can’t help it. It’s a quiet craft, and not too big. They don’t look uncomfortable, but they’re all busying themselves with something or other, as a distraction. He notices that Sam is sharing a set of earphones with Wanda; the Vision has produced a book, which they presumably smuggled onto the craft when they boarded earlier, and they’re flipping through the pages in record time. Natasha has moved to the front of the craft, to check up on Maria. 

“. . . Was it always like this, after the freezer? . . . Your arm, I mean?” Steve asks quietly.  
“Yeah. They got me out at least 12 hours before I needed to be deployed, every time – I think 12 hours, from the changes in guards in the room. It was . . . A little hard to tell,” Bucky recalls, staring out across the craft as he does so. Steve nods, so he continues. “They had a warming process. Warm saline, and – drugs. I don't know which ones. They had a team of engineers to work the arm loose – replace parts,” He says, wincing.  
“. . . Does it hurt?” Steve asks, grimacing. 

Bucky nods, looking down at his lap.  
“Feels like a strain. Hurts my head, because of the implant. Pinches on – on what’s left,” He says, vaguely waving at the top half of his left arm. “A day is a guess – but that’s how long I think it’s gonna be like this. I might have to take it off, as soon as I’m able,” He says, and his voice is a lot more hollow than Steve would like. 

Carefully, Steve reaches to where Bucky’s metal arm crosses his body, and interlinks his fingers with the fingers of Bucky’s prosthesis, immobile and unfeeling though they are. Bucky doesn’t react, for a moment – Steve’s worried that Bucky truly is still annoyed at him, and just won’t say it, despite being a lot more open of late, on his therapist’s suggestion. 

But then Bucky shifts, moving slightly closer to Steve, and dipping his head to rest on his shoulder. Steve looks down, and sees that, surprisingly, Bucky’s eyes have immediately slipped shut. He’s clearly trying to sleep – and, within a minute or two, he achieves his goal. 

Natasha comes and sits opposite Steve, getting comfortable, and glances up at him and Bucky: she smiles softly, at Bucky’s sleep-slack face, and Steve’s doting expression, as he rubs his thumb across the metal hand. Steve catches her eye, after a second – he’s not embarrassed, though. He just smiles, slightly wearily.  
“Thank you. For your support, today. You were great,” Steve murmurs to her.  
“I always am,” She says. “It’s no problem,” 

He smirks at her confidence, as she takes out her own set of headphones, and brings her knees up to her chest; she takes out her phone, and begins scrolling through some website or other, or SHIELD cables – he’s not sure what, and he doesn’t mind. He’s happy, for now: despite the adrenaline of the mission, which normally wouldn’t let either of them sleep at a time like this, Bucky has managed to fall asleep on his shoulder, because he feels _safe_. Even after the horrors he’s seen today, he feels he can let his guard down as long as Steve, and Sam, and Nat, and the whole team are around him, defending him. 

Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s head, relaxing into his body, and smiling into his hair. 

-

Steve wakes from his nap with a start, inhaling deeply through his nose and looking around; he can’t feel one side of his body. His eyes help him fill in the gaps in his understanding of the situation, easily, when he notices that Bucky is still slumped against him: he relaxes, and shifts, leaning into Bucky again. He doesn’t stir. He doesn’t really move in his sleep, unless he’s having a night-terror. Steve’s glad that’s not happening, right now – he’s glad it rarely happens, these days. 

He looks around, and sees that most of the team are asleep: the Vision is nowhere to be seen, presumably having phased out of the craft and shot off home on their own, while Sam and Wanda are napping in the fold-out beds the craft came equipped with. They’re avoiding the major cities, and trying not to make too much noise, so as not to attract attention; the location of their new base is top-secret. So the route takes a little longer than usual, and the jet isn’t going at top speed. 

Steve glances towards the cockpit: he can see Maria is flying the plane into a clear, extremely early morning. He can’t hazard a guess at what the time is, but he’ll probably nap, again, when he gets home. After a minute or so, he spots Natasha, still opposite to him, still scrolling through something or other on her phone. 

She looks up, as if she senses he’s awake: in reality, she’s probably been slyly monitoring him all the while, having heard him wake up.  
“Good morning sunshine,” She says softly, her usual smirk on her face.  
“Natasha. How long has it been?”  
“Couple of hours. We’ll be landing soon,” She says, putting her phone away. Steve nods. 

She pauses, looking from Steve to Bucky; she clasps her hands together, her elbows leaning on her knees: “I didn’t think you’d sleep so soundly. Either of you,” She says.  
“Why not?” Steve  
asks, though he can probably guess.  
"The raid was . . . Bad, for him. And for you,” She says. “I can’t sleep at the best of times. But he’s dead to the world,”  
“What can I say,” Steve sighs, “I put pretty much everyone to sleep, huh,” He jokes, with a weary smile. 

“Were you always like this? . . . You and him?” She asks, nodding at Bucky.  
“What – deep sleepers? – No. We don’t usually-” Steve misunderstands.  
“I mean, involved. Half the world war two historians in the world have bet their careers on you two at least _dating_ when you were younger,” She says. 

Steve pauses, mouth hanging open – he shuts it as quickly as he can, but it’s clear, to Natasha, that he’s surprised by her question.  
“I . . . We weren’t together. In the war. I had Peggy, and Bucky – Bucky was always into women, too. I – don’t know if you can tell, now, but he was always a charmer. He had such a way with dames,” Steve says, looking down at Bucky with an expression Natasha would label as _pride_.  
“How’d you know how he sleeps, then?” She asks, an incredulous expression on her face.  
“We – uh, we . . . We share the same bed,” Steve says, and Natasha swears she can see a blush tinge his cheeks, even in the low light. 

"Uh-huh,” She hums, raising an eyebrow.  
“It’s – not like that. He likes when I touch him. He wasn’t touched for decades – well, nothing except . . . You know,” He says, not wanting to talk about the torture, and the surgery, and the abuse. Not right now. She doesn’t want to hear it – enough of those nightmares lie in her past, after all.  
“. . . Maybe it’s like that, for him. Did you consider that?” She asks. Suddenly, Steve wonders if he’s getting the _hurt him and I’ll kick your ass_ talk that he saw Bucky receive about a thousand times over, back in Brooklyn. Funny, how Bucky always brought Steve on those dates, too. 

“He always liked dames,” Steve repeats. He can’t let himself hope for anything more.  
“And what about you?” She  
asks. He's taken aback - no one's really asked him that before. Not even Natasha, before now, despite her multiple attempts at setting him up on dates, about a year back. Everyone knows about Peggy, after all; they all assume so much about him, based on the history books. Hardly any of it is true, he's found.

"I’m . . . Not fussy,” Steve says, shrugging with the shoulder Bucky isn’t leaning on. Natasha nods.  
“Look, I – I’m not gonna get any more involved in this than I already am. But as your friend, I think you should talk to him about it. Because I’ve never seen two people who care about each other more than you two,” She says, sitting up. He can tell, from her wistful expression, that she’s lying – not about the intensity of his and Bucky's relationship, but about _never having seen anything like it before_. He can almost see the heavy weight of her own memories in her eyes, as she turns her head away, and looks out of the cockpit window. 

“. . . Thank you, Natasha,” He says.  
“It’s nothing, Steve. It’s what friends are for – well, friends and spy skills that allow me to see what others might not, even if it’s right in front of them,” She says sarcastically. He snorts. 

They both feel the plane start to dip, slightly: Maria calls back to them, “We’re coming in to land. Get the others up, tell them to strap in. Wheels down in five,”  
“Thank you, Agent,” Steve says, clearing his throat and trying to sound authoritative – especially seeing as she could, potentially, have heard that entire exchange.  
“No problem, _Captain_ ,” Maria says, and Steve can hear the smile in her voice. 

Steve looks down at his mostly-numb shoulder, and uses the hand that’s not still gripping onto Bucky’s prosthesis to gently touch his flesh hand, squeezing it, and whispering, “Hey – we’re almost home,” 

Bucky wakes up with a start: his flesh hand clenches on Steve’s, and suddenly Steve is glad that Bucky’s prosthesis is still completely frozen in position, because his fingers could have been crushed. Bucky blinks hard, and looks all around frantically.  
“Hey – hey, it’s alright. You’re on the jet. It’s over. We’re home,” Steve says calmly. When Bucky wakes up somehow disturbed, it’s best to just repeat the basics of the situation, and if he has questions, answer them plainly, until he understands, and he’s grounded. 

But he doesn’t have any questions, this time – he remembers, again.  
“We’re home,” He echoes, relaxing a little. He watches Sam and Wanda rise, blinking owlishly as they fold the beds away, and strap themselves in for the descent. He sees Natasha watch him, though it’s clear she’s trying not to be seen doing so. He wonders what she’s got to hide. 

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks.  
“Arm,” Bucky grunts, shifting his shoulder, and the remains of his arm, inside the prosthesis. Steve grimaces. “. . . Tired,” He adds. “Can we just stay in bed all weekend?” He asks.  
“It’s Tuesday, Buck,” Steve reminds him.  
“. . . Never mind,” Bucky responds. Though he can vaguely remember lying around in bed for a long weekend, at least once – scratchy sheets, with the beds pushed together, lying very still, not wanting to move. Not because he was immobilised, or restrained, or frozen, or numb – because he . . . He was modelling for Steve. He stayed laying down all weekend, pretty much. It was to cheer Steve up. Steve needed a life model. Bucky wanted to comply, he finally realises, piecing the memory together. 

“. . . As long as you promise not to draw me. I don’t think I can stay still for as long as I used to. Aside from, well-” Bucky indicates his frozen prosthesis. 

Steve grins wider than Bucky thinks he’s ever seen – he knows why. It’s because that memory was all Bucky’s – usually it’s Steve that says something, and Bucky agrees, saying he remembers. But, though he knows Bucky would be unlikely to lie to him, Steve can never quite shake the feeling that Bucky’s just pretending for his benefit; to be his friend. 

But the fact that Bucky remembered modelling for him – _that was the weekend after Bucky enlisted, Steve felt rotten about not being accepted into the army, so Bucky took his mind off it, happy to take his clothes off and lie around all weekend for Steve to draw_ – well, it makes Steve blush. The memory obviously means a lot, to Bucky. 

Natasha’s words echo in his head: he looks up at her, and sees her smiling to herself, as she straps herself in. 

“. . . No promises,” Steve jokes. 

-

“You’re still working?” Natasha says, as she strides into Tony’s lab. It’s just gone 5 am, but she’s got work to do: reports to write, assessments of her teammates to hand to Nick Fury covertly. Not that they need to be aware of that – she suspects they already know, anyway. They don’t much care that she talks to Nick, without them being aware, though. The team, by and large, trust him. He’s proven himself to be loyal, for the most part. 

He’s fiddling with the arm of a new suit: she’s half afraid that, in his clearly sleep-deprived state, his screwdriver will slip, and he’ll accidentally stab himself in the unarmoured part of his arm. She notices that this glove, rather than hot-rod red, appears to be black, with gold trimmings. She wonders if he intentionally coloured it that way, of is that’s what the metal looks like, before he adds the paint. 

“Can’t sleep. Too much to do. But you already know that,” Tony says dismissively. His eyes are wide, where he stares at the glove; he sets down the screwdriver.  
“New colour scheme?” She asks. He shrugs.  
“Thought we were all for more dangerous guys wearing black, on the team,” He says irritably. She rolls her eyes.  
“That’s what I came to talk to you about, actually,” She says, folding her arms, as she comes to a stop in front of his work bench. 

He doesn’t respond, for a minute, cursing under his breath as he manipulates the piece of armour from his arm, with a little difficulty. Clearly, it’s not been programmed properly, yet. After wrestling with it for a few moments, he sets it down, and sighs.  
“. . . How was he?” Tony asks, a note of bitterness in his voice.  
“He was fine. There were some concerning moments,” She answers truthfully.  
“He went rogue?” Tony asks, raising an eyebrow.  
“No. He – ended up in a bad way. He didn’t hurt anyone. He saved a lot of test subjects, though. Helped lead us to them. SHIELD evacuated them for quarantine, and questioning – that’s one AIM base we don’t have to worry about,” She says. 

He laughs bitterly. “At last – good news. You’re not usually one to count on, for that, Nat,” He adds. She smirks. “. . . So what’s the problem, if he didn’t go _Full Metal Jacket_ on one of you?” Tony asks. She purses her lips.  
“His arm. He was . . . Trapped, in a freezer. The cold interfered with it, and now it’s locked in position, most likely for a day or so. Something Hydra did, apparently,” She explains. 

Tony nods, his bitter smile back: “And here I was thinking maybe you’d just come to beg me to come back to the team. Would’ve been nice,” He says wistfully.  
“I _am_. I thought that was implicit,” She says, raising an eyebrow.  
“Still. Would have been nice to hear out loud,” He counters.  
“I’m not here to stroke your ego, Tony. I’ve had a long day. I’m just here to tell you to play nice with Bucky – if you don’t, you might offend Cap. We can’t afford to lose him, too. You know that,” She points out. 

He looks into her eyes, for a few seconds – and he knows she’s right. He’s always known he’s treading a dangerous line, fighting with Steve like this. He doesn’t want to work with Cap’s new-old best buddy, but he might have to. He doesn’t see any other way out of this – at least, not for now. That’s a new feeling for him, for the most part; he hasn’t felt trapped like this since he was stuck in a cave, building his first suit of armour, getting on for eight years ago. He sighs. 

“Prosthetic arms take a long time to build,” He tells Natasha.  
“I know. And how many suits have you made, since we first handed you the list of criteria, about a week or so ago?” She asks, placing her hands on her hips. He scrubs a hand down his face, as he admits:  
“Two – well, one and a half, technically, because one was already half done, and-”  
“Two. Right.” She says, a look of judgement on her face. "You're Tony Stark. This should be a walk in the park, for you, anyway," She adds. 

"Thought you weren't going to stroke my ego?" He asks with a raised eyebrow. She shrugs. 

"Force of habit," She explains, watching his reaction carefully. She can see, from his face, that he knows he could have built the arm by now. 

He head drops down, his forehead pressing against his forearms, and he groans.  
“Do I have to?” He asks petulantly.  
“Play nice – don’t let us lose Cap. I’m watching, Tony,” She says, and he hears her walking away. He wonders when she started to sound so much like Nick Fury. 

He looks up, and watches her get in the elevator that opens up onto his basement lab.  
“Go to bed. Pepper misses you when you’re not around, you know,”  
“I am around!” He calls to her, as the doors shut on her incredulous expression. 

“. . . Sometimes,” He adds, looking at the tools, and half-formed pieces of armour, and wires, and circuit boards he’s surrounded by; the legal documents he’s stuck to the walls with small, industrial-strength magnets of his own design, so hopefully he can never pull them free again and therefore won’t have to deal with them. At least, he hopes not. 

Sure, he might be there, in person – but he hasn’t been very present, with Pepper or the Avengers, these last few weeks. He can’t pin it all on Barnes, he knows – but, somewhere deep inside, a childish part of himself tells him, _you can try_. 

He closes his eyes, and dozes for a moment, before finally pulling out his already drawn-out plans for Bucky’s arm. He sighs, and sets about collecting parts up. 

“Sir – incoming call from Washington D.C.,” Friday’s voice chirps, and Tony flinches; he wasn’t expecting this.  
“. . . Who is it?” He asks, bracing himself.  
“Senator-”  
“Oh, fuck,” He curses. “. . . I don’t need this. Tell him I don’t need this. Tell him I’m busy,” He instructs the computer.  
“He insists on talking to you,” Friday replies. Tony sighs, but motions with his hand for her to hook him up with the phonecall.  
“Senator, I don’t know if you know this, but it’s-" He checks his watch, "5 a.m. and I haven’t slept in two days because of your inquiries,” He complains, by way of a greeting.  
“That is unfortunate, Mr. Stark. But I’m an early riser,” The senator responds.  
“Uh-huh. What are you gonna tell me off for now?”  
“Nothing. I'm not in charge of the inquiry. I am . . . An interested party. I received news of an operation in Arizona, and noticed that you were not included in the Avengers team involved,”  
“Yeah – little busy,” Tony says, scribbling even as he listens to the senator’s voice.  
“I was under the impression that you had lawyers to sort out your transgressions, for the main part. I wondered if perhaps you had experienced a . . . Falling-out, with your team members?”  
“Why do you care? – It’s none of your business,” Tony replies, frowning down at his notes.  
“I'm aware of that. I just wanted to let you know, you have my support. You possess a truly innovative mind, Mr. Stark – your father did before you, too. The Avengers are nothing, without you,” 

Tony finally stops writing; he tucks his pencil behind his ear, and folds his arms, leaning back in his chair.  
“The point?” He asks wearily.  
“. . . I would like to meet with you. I think that, between us, we can get you out of the hot water you’ve been landed in, due to nothing but good intentions,” He says.  
“Oh yeah? How do you think you'll do that?” Tony asks, with a smirk.  
“I have some ideas. And a genius like you may be able to understand them,” The senator points out. 

Tony sighs, staring down at the plans for Bucky’s arm: he takes his pencil up, again, and continues writing.  
“Sure. Why not. I’ll have my girl Friday set up a meeting with you,” He says. “I’m not free for about three years, though,” He mentions.  
“It’s not a concern. I look forward to meeting with you, Mr. Stark,” The senator says. “If you have any concerns, in the meantime, do not hesitate to call me,” 

With that, the call cuts off. Tony continues drawing, and writing, for a moment more – a list of materials, sums, costs – but finally, after two minutes, he pauses, with a frown.  
“Friday? . . . Which senator was that, again?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!! You're getting your update 3 days early because I'm not getting internet installed at my house until thursday - so I've come to a pub with wifi to post this. Happy 4th of July (happy birthday, Steve). 
> 
> Anyway. There's probably something else but I can't remember. The next update will be next Monday, as usual. Remember I'm on twitter (@snaptain) I post stevebucky fan art and get salty about things and stuff. It's a riot. 
> 
> Thank you all for your support, I love you all!! Any and all mistakes are my own - I'm constantly proof-reading, but I find new mistakes all the time, so sorry about that.

It’s not til about 11 o’clock that Bucky wakes, again: last night he came in and went straight to bed, while Steve stayed up for an hour or so, writing his report, so it was fresh in his mind. By the time Steve climbed into bed, it was around 7 am. 

When Bucky’s eyes open, it takes him a few seconds to realise he’s gazing at Steve’s chest: he’s sitting up, next to Bucky, the sunlight from the window lighting up the gold in his hair. His eyelashes seem to glow, and his eyes glisten, in the direct light. Bucky knows he shouldn’t stare – it’s rude, and it makes people nervous, and it’s not what people do – but he’s just woken up, and the colours draw his eyes, more than the expanse of Steve’s chest. 

Steve notices Bucky shift slightly, and looks down: lying on his side, he’s obviously half-awake, his face crumpled with his recent wakefulness. Steve can’t help but smile.  
“I thought you might not wake up today,” Steve says, and his voice is soft from disuse. Bucky’s eyes screw shut, and his right hand comes up to rub at them. Automatically, he tries to do the same with his left hand – but his arm is still frozen up, and he grunts with pain, as his skin rubs painfully against the metal. 

“Hey – easy,” Steve says, reaching down. His hand comes just short of Bucky’s skin, though. He doesn’t know what hurts.  
“Easy for you to say,” Bucky mumbles, sitting up slightly. He pushes his hair out of his eyes with his right hand; he gathers his hair, but realises he can’t put it up. “. . . Steve, do you – can you do this?” He asks, indicating his hair.  
“I – can give it a go?” Steve says, not sounding optimistic. Bucky rolls his eyes, and rolls over to retrieve a hair tie from his bedside table. He hands it to Steve, and turns, waiting for him to gather his hair into a ponytail. 

Steve tries. That doesn’t mean he does well – it’s messy, at best (messier than when Bucky does it himself), but it’ll do, Bucky finds. Steve strokes his fingers through Bucky’s hair, gathering up stray locks; tucking them behind his ears. This time, Steve is acutely aware of how the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck raise; how prominent his goosebumps are, and the way he shivers, as Steve’s hands drop to rest on his shoulders. 

Natasha’s words from last night echo in his head, once more – when Bucky turns around, he sees Steve biting his lip.  
“. . . What?” He asks. 

Steve pauses, looking out of the window. He knows he has to say something – he knows Nat was right, about them; he knows he’s always been in deep, with Bucky – but he’d hate for Bucky not to feel the same way. He can’t let this go on, now she’s mentioned it, without saying something. He can’t get Bucky hurt, again. 

“. . . I spoke to Nat, last night. When you were asleep,” Steve begins. Bucky frowns, sitting up a little more, at Steve’s serious tone, and expression. He just nods. Steve pauses – and sighs. He feels a little like Bucky looks, when he can’t say what he wants to. In that situation, Bucky usually signs. Steve decides he has everything to lose, here; somehow, not saying it out loud lessens the impact. 

_She asked if we were together,_ he signs. _As in, dating. She said it was like I was interested in you romantically._

He watches Bucky’s face carefully, as he translates what Steve is saying to him, a few seconds after he’s signed it: he looks a little surprised, for a moment; he bites his lip. Steve notices how he tugs his knees closer to his chest. 

“Are you?” 

Steve cringes, at the thought of saying what he’s thinking. Because he’s had it bad for Bucky for coming up to a century, but Bucky was never someone he could imagine wanting him back. When they were kids, Bucky was a specimen – strong, lean, athletic; popular, _especially_ with women. He mistook it for jealousy, back then: he always wondered why it felt so bittersweet, when Bucky talked about his dates; when he saw Bucky with a dame on each arm, living like there was no tomorrow. 

He didn’t realise until after Bucky was gone, why that was. He had precious little time, during the war, to mourn, or come to terms with it. And when he woke up, Bucky was still gone. So he had to make peace with it. 

He wondered, when he found out that Bucky was still alive, if he still felt the same way; whether it was okay to still feel like this, especially with Bucky’s memories gone, initially. 

It was a stupid question. Steve never stopped loving Bucky, he knows deep down; it wasn’t his memories Steve loved, either. It was _him_ , no matter how damaged or broken he thought he was. 

But he can’t say it. He never gave any indication that he was into men, as well. He kept Steve around – he was always tactile, with him, but – well, as the exhibit at the Smithsonian said – they were just _best friends_. They can’t be wrong about two things. 

“Are _you_?” He asks, and his voice is almost inaudible; he scratches the back of his head, awkward, as if shifting will make this less awkward; make time pass quicker, so they don’t have to dwell on this. 

To his surprise, Bucky just smiles, and looks down to where his knees protrude like mountains from the sheets.  
“I remember loving all sorts of things. They’re all gone now – except two things. I always loved New York, and – I remember, I always loved you,” He murmurs. Steve frowns, gaping – he manages to gather himself to quietly ask,  
“. . . But you – do you remember? You used to – there were loads of dames,” Steve mentions.  
“I barely remember them. Not really. It might’ve been real at the time, but . . .” Bucky shakes his head, before setting it down to rest on the top of his knees, watching Steve from one eye. 

“I never thought you felt like this,” Steve admits.  
“I always did. Anything that I can remember. I had to stow it. It made it worse, when I realised what I’d done,” Bucky states plainly. 

Steve remembers Bucky’s face, when he remembered: that split second where he switched from anger and confusion, to complete, agonising horror, as he recalled who Steve was. He can’t imagine, now he thinks about it, that anything that looked that painful could come from anything but love. 

“We can stop – we can stop sleeping in the same bed. We can get separate rooms, if you want,” Bucky says. “If you’re bothered by it,” He adds. Steve opens his mouth, but he can’t find any words – he doesn’t know how to explain himself to anyone, let alone to Bucky, who has trouble enough interpreting, sometimes. 

Bucky turns away, reaching into his bedside cabinet for a vest with a sigh – Steve blinks, and realises he’s missed the moment where Bucky was waiting for him to reciprocate. He doesn’t know how to do this – he never really did it, with Peggy – they didn’t have time, and then she was gone; they only had time for a kiss. 

So that’s what Steve does. He reaches over to Bucky, placing a hand on his shoulder; when he turns around, Steve pauses, looking in his eyes for any hint of uncertainty, before he leans in. The relief he feels when Bucky leans in, too, is almost too much to bear. He feels almost dizzy, as his lips brush against Bucky; Bucky’s bottom lip pressed up against his top; Bucky’s stubble brushing against his chin during the slow embrace. Steve doesn’t realise he’s shut his eyes, until he registers that it’s not so light in the room, anymore. 

Remembering how good it made Bucky feel, before, he threads his fingers between strands of Bucky’s hair, where it’s loosely pulled into the ponytail. Bucky makes a small, breathy sound, that Steve would probably call a gasp, if it was any larger. Steve lets up, pressing his forehead against Bucky’s. It’s silent, for a minute or two, as Steve massages Bucky’s scalp. Reciprocating, Bucky brings his flesh hand up to loosely grasp at the back of Steve’s neck, as he kisses him again. It’s messy, and warmer than every single time Bucky imagined; then again, he has trouble imagining anything warm, these days. It helps if Steve’s involved. 

They separate, foreheads still touching, for the moment: Steve’s the first one to talk.  
“. . . You still love New York City?” He asks reverently. Bucky smirks.  
“Yeah. I miss it. Like I missed you,” Bucky confesses, meaning that he loved it in a way that was heartbreaking; a dull ache inside him, because he thought he would never see it again. He thought he had to make peace, never knowing what it was like to be home, again. 

Steve pulls back, kissing Bucky on the cheek, and unceremoniously getting out of bed.  
“Steve?” He asks, uncertainly.  
“Get up – start packing. We’re going home,” He says. 

Bucky looks taken aback, for a moment – maybe because home was never a place, for him – but he grins widely.  
“What about the team?” He asks, doing his best to tug on his vest, at great length manipulating it over his prosthesis.  
“They can do without us, for now. We’ll be back soon enough, but – the living quarters of the Avengers tower is empty. No one will know that we’re there – none of the public, anyway,” He adds, realising that Natasha probably somehow _already knows_ about his spontaneous plans. She has a way of working out what he’s going to do, before he’s even thought about doing it. 

“What do you say?” Steve asks, tugging a suitcase out from underneath their bed, and putting it down on top of the covers; Bucky bounces, a little, where he’s still sitting. He pauses, just taking in the appearance of Steve, bathed in sunlight, and happy like Bucky hasn’t seen him since he saw Peggy in that red dress. He realises he’s done it: he’s brought Steve something other than worry, and heartache. He’s made Steve happy. And – well, he’s happy himself, too. 

So he nods, and tells Steve, “. . . We’re going home,” 

-

“Do you remember this place?” 

Bucky looks up at the fire escape, shading his eyes with his right hand: it’s a hot day, and bright, too, but he’s wearing his jacket, like usual. They stopped at a drug store to get a sling, to make his bent arm look more normal; to stop people from staring, so much. Bucky had hoped it would be better, by now, but he’s trying not to think about it. 

They’ve been in the city for about a day, now – the journey down was quick, given that Nat offered to fly them down and to the Avengers tower directly using one of the quinjets. In stealth mode, she guaranteed that no one would notice; no one would know they were occupying the tower, again. Well – aside from Pepper, who still uses it as a place of business; the regular staff, who Tony has pointed out many times are bound by strict confidentiality contracts not to tell anyone what goes on in the living quarters of the tower. 

Neither of them being the type to sit around and do nothing, especially in New York City, they started their sight-seeing tour early the next day: they’ve already been to Coney Island, wanting to catch the rides early, and beat the crowds. Bucky was delighted to see that the Cyclone was still there: he and Steve didn’t go on it– despite the fact Steve promised not to vomit, this time. Bucky didn’t believe him. Not after the amount of funnel cake they shared, beforehand. 

They’ve been on the subway, avoiding eye contact with anyone but each other, so as to not be spotted – it’s more of a concern for Steve than Bucky, given that the Winter Soldier has faded from the public eye, recently; it was uncertain whether he was even real, in the first place, to anyone but conspiracy theorists. But it’s still hard for Bucky: he lives in constant fear, Steve knows, of being found out. He tugged the collar of his jacket higher up, and looked down at his sneakers, willing the journey to be over. Steve put his arm around him, shielding him from watchful gazes for a while, and whispering that displays of public affection make people uncomfortable. Bucky smiled, at that. He kissed Steve gently on the lips, while other passengers looked anywhere else. 

There are some things that were hard for Bucky to see, even with Steve’s help – ground zero is one of those places. Even now, Bucky wasn’t the only one who shed a tear at the site, reading the information about the thousands of people who lost their lives – and the thousands more who died, in subsequent wars, on both sides. Steve didn’t say much. But Bucky could tell for certain that seeing it again hit him just as hard. 

Bucky doesn’t tell Steve, but he’s afraid that he contributed to the conflicts that America has taken part in, these past few years – a bullet fired at the right person at the right time, by just one agent, can have a huge effect, he knows. Hydra used to tell him that all the time. It’s one of the only things that they said that was true. 

The Brooklyn Bridge was hard for him, too – the sound of his feet hitting the wood, and the sound of the traffic; the river; Steve’s feet beating down on the planks beside him, just like the rays of sunshine from the sky . . . These were enough to cause him to stop, completely _stop_ , and have to control his breathing. He looked over the edge, and down at the water, and he told Steve, I thought I’d never come back. _I thought I’d never come home, when I was on that table – when I was in that cell, and when I was put in stasis. I thought I’d never come here again. I thought I’d never come here again, with you._

He saw Steve swallow back the lump in his throat, his eyes red-rimmed, and squinting in the midday sun, as he nodded. He didn’t have to say he thought the same. They both knew. 

On their way back to the tower, Steve took them through streets that felt uncanny, to Bucky – simultaneously familiar, and unfamiliar – and he lost himself in the sensation of the heat, and the noise, and the thickness of the air. It never used to smell like this; taste like this. At least Steve is still the same. Relatively speaking. 

So when he points out an otherwise unremarkable apartment building, Bucky has to stop, and think; again, it’s familiar, and he grasps at the memory for a good few minutes, before it dawns on him. 

Looking around, he takes a few steps up to the fire escape; he looks in through the window beside him, but sees no one inside. So, he strides up the stairs: funny, how he knows their exact height; the exact way that the metal resonates and clangs underneath his feet. He can’t believe it’s the same – of all the things, _this place_ , which wasn’t all too great in the thirties, is the _same_. Maybe recreated, maybe handed between people, but still fundamentally the same. 

He reaches the door, and sees that the brickwork is different; the door is bright red, now, and there’s no brick to one side, hiding a key. He glances to one side, and sees the yard below them, and he remembers telling Steve, for a joke, that he could probably jump down and be fine. He remembers telling Steve not to try it, when he decided he was going to. He had to bodily restrain him to get him inside. God, they were stupid as kids. 

He turns around to Steve, looking up at his face. 

“. . . We lived here,” He murmurs. Steve smiles; the expression looks hard-won, like he’s fighting for it. It’s hard for him to ignore how emotional he’s become, being here, with Bucky. Bucky’s getting the feeling he had back on the Brooklyn Bridge, now. His nostrils flare, as he breathes harder. 

He feels as if there should be a plaque, or something - something important happened, here. Something huge, that resonates with him; resonated with him even when he was just an idea, blossoming in the mind of a person who could be considered no more than an organic android; Hydra’s plaything, with no original thoughts, other than a tiny intuition that the man in the bridge meant something to Bucky - and that, maybe, he knew who Bucky was. 

Gradually, Steve brings up one hand, and puts it on Bucky’s shoulder, his thumb pressing gently into his neck, at the medial end of Bucky’s collarbone.  
“You were standing right here,” Steve explains. “You know what you said, don’t you?” Steve asks. Bucky nods enthusiastically; when he blinks, he can see Steve’s face, covered in bruises; Steve’s face, bleeding, and desperate; Steve’s face, thin and gaunt, but smiling, because he’s got nothing, but he’s got Bucky. 

“Til the end of the line, pal,” Bucky says, and sniffs. Steve doesn’t comment on his right hand coming up to rub at his eyes; how it lingers on top of Steve’s hand, for a minute. 

“Can we stay here, for a while?” Bucky asks quietly.  
“Yeah,” Steve replies. 

They stay for a little while longer. 

-

By the time they get back to the tower, having collected a pizza from a joint that Bruce recommended a while before he went AWOL – one that’s family owned, and offers organic ingredients – they’re both quite exhausted. Not particularly physically, but definitely emotionally. 

They settle in to eat, in front of the television: Steve checks his messages from the other Avengers, of which there are a few – Sam wants to know when he’ll be back to train, Wanda wants to know how Bucky’s holding up now, Natasha wants to know what to tell people when they ask her where they’ve gone. Bucky hasn’t got any messages, but he prefers it that way. He’s busy thinking, anyway. 

He waits for Steve to put his phone down, and pick up some food, before he stars talking:  
“. . . It’s hard, being around a lot of people. Like on the subway,” Bucky mentions. Steve looks up, a curious expression on his face.  
“You managed it, though,” He says, encouragingly. Bucky nods.  
“I know. It’s just . . . There’s a lot of ‘em,” He repeats, superfluously. Steve can tell he’s trying to work out how to word what he’s saying. “I feel stupid, because – because I can go and kick ass, on a mission – kill people, even – and I don’t feel like this. I don’t feel like anyone’s attacking _me_ – they’re just attacking an enemy. Everyone out there sees _me_ ,” He says, nodding at the huge windows, showing them the late sunset, painted with broad strokes of orange and pink and purple. 

“Are you afraid they won’t like you?” Steve asks.  
“. . . Maybe. I just feel exposed, when I’m not wearing a uniform, and war paint,” Bucky explains, finally feeling like he’s summed it up well. It helps to talk through things, sometimes, he’s found. Not always. 

Steve nods, and looks down at his food – he takes a deep breath, like he’s going to say something, but then doesn’t. Bucky frowns.  
“What is it?” He asks. Steve shakes his head, but Bucky can tell he’s still thinking about something.  
“What, Steve?” He asks again, a little frustrated.  
“Nothing! It’s – well,” He says, setting down his current slice of pizza. “. . . People wear war paint all the time. It’s just – it’s not war paint. It’s – make-up,” Steve says a little delicately. 

Bucky pauses, not speaking for a little while, and staring down at the table like he can see a complex equation written on it.  
“People like me wear make-up now,” He states. He’s not asking, Steve knows – it’s just, he hadn’t considered that that could help, yet. This is another reason why he needs Steve.  
“What, men? – Sure,” Steve says. Bucky shrugs.  
“. . . Maybe. Not really,” Bucky mumbles.  
“Not really?” Steve asks, one eyebrow raised.  
“Don’t feel like much of a man. It’s – not important for me, anymore. I spent so long not even knowing I was a _person_ , it’s not really possible for me to feel like a man. I’m not masculine. I’m not feminine, I just sort of . . . Am,” Bucky explains.  
“. . . The Vision said the same thing,” Steve remembers. “When they were first created,” 

Bucky hums, frowning in thought. Steve can see that he’s having a tough time, considering that – he’s struggled with so many aspects of his personal identity, outside of serving as a soldier, and protecting him, that it’s unsurprising that his gender is another thing that he’s not entirely certain of. 

“Do you think you want to change pronouns?” Steve asks, watching Bucky carefully. Bucky looks past Steve and out the window, as he considers it. 

“Maybe, I . . . I need to think about it. For a while,” He says thoughtfully; clearly, he hasn’t much considered it, himself. Steve doesn’t want to pressure him. He hopes Bucky’s not afraid of what he thinks.  
“You know it doesn’t matter to me, right? – if you’re a man, or – or something else,” Steve points out.  
“I know, Steve,” Bucky says softly, looking up and at Steve, his expression still sincere.  
“No matter what – you’re here, and you’re alive, and you’ve got a choice – so I say, get as much _war paint_ as you like,” Steve says, with a smile, reaching up with a clean hand to tuck a lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear. As a reflex, Bucky tries to reach up with his left hand to take Steve’s hand – and, though there’s a loud whirring noise, and a lot of clicking and electronic sounds, his left arm complies. 

His expression is one of surprise, as is Steve’s – he smiles, though, as Steve helps him take his sling off. The arm is stiff, for a few minutes, as he manoeuvres it for the first time in a day or so.  
“Welcome back,” He mutters, flexing his fingers. Steve snorts, and he looks up.  
“What?” He asks. Steve just grins. “ _What?_ ” He repeats, asking again.  
“Nothing! – just,” Steve pauses. “What you’re like, with that. I’m glad, it’s better,” Steve explains. Bucky rolls his eyes. 

There’s a movie, on TV – a kids movie, about young wizards, that Bucky gets into pretty quickly, asking Steve questions he’s not sure of the answer to – and they watch it to the end, gradually leaning into each other, as the sun goes down. 

When the film is finished, Steve changes the channel – and is immediately sent crashing down to reality, as he observes the latest evening news.  
“-T’Challa, billionaire and Prince of Wakanda, has spoken out against the events of last year in his country, a few days after the anniversary of the destruction that Tony Stark and the Hulk rained down upon the capital city,” The anchor says. Steve frowns, sitting up slightly, and out of Bucky’s grasp. 

“The former schoolteacher has taken to the public eye this past year after what he calls a terrorist attack that his country was subjected to by two of the Avengers last year. He has today expressed his desire for Tony Stark to be extradited to answer for his crimes. He has also questioned why the Hulk has not been found, detained and prosecuted,” 

Bucky looks between Steve and the screen, knowing – though he wasn’t involved in the business with Ultron, last year – that this isn’t good news for any of the Avengers, but in particular, for Tony. 

“-and now, we are in a position to go live to Tony Stark, who is addressing us from a Stark tech facility in Miami. We warn you that this is a live feed, and may contain flashing images,” The anchor says. 

“. . . This can’t be good,” Steve murmurs, shifting where he sits, as an image of Tony appears, standing at a podium in the reception area of one of his many factories. Cameras flash all around him, and there are around ten microphones in his face. Steve can only hope he doesn’t put his foot in his mouth, now. 

“I’ll now take questions from the floor,” Tony is saying, causing a buzz of voices to swell up. He accepts one question.  
“Mr. Stark, what do you say to T’Challa’s accusations of criminal activity on Wakandan soil?” One voice asks. Tony appears to sigh, but responds quickly –  
“I don’t think I’m a criminal. At the time I said I would help with the clean-up effort, and I have – Stark tech is in Wakanda right now. I’ve paid reparations. The wrongdoing was out of my hands, and I did my best to stop it,” He points out.  
“So you’ve paid enough, so you can get away with it?” A female voice asks. Tony scans the crowd, and pauses, before answering:  
“If T’Challa wants to talk more about this, I’m willing to, in private. But as is, I think I’ve paid for everything. I bought the building I destroyed, before I destroyed it. Call it – an unplanned demolition,” He quips. There’s a few low laughs in the crowd.  
“One that cost people’s lives!” A voice calls from the crowd. A few more voices agree loudly. Tony pauses for longer, this time. 

“We were fighting a war, for the fate of the planet. In wars, there are casualties. I regret that there had to be-”  
“Why hasn’t Bruce Banner been arrested?” A voice calls. A larger amount of people begin to cheer, and hoot in agreement.  
“I – look, we-”  
“Where is Bruce Banner now?” Another voice calls. Tony scans the room, and knows that he’s losing them; it’s clear on his face.  
“Look, we – I’m sure he’ll come forward. But the fact is, it’s not just Wakanda that’s suffered, these past years – and it’s not all the Hulk’s fault, either. For example, the Triskelion, in 2014 – those three helicarriers, too. They were on Hydra, but I still helped pay for the clean-up. As is, we’ve all suffered, but Hydra is gone,”  
“What about the Winter Soldier?” One voice asks. 

The room goes quiet. 

“. . . I'm not in a position to discuss anything I know about him. There’s not much about him, in the data we’ve gathered from Hydra,” Tony lies, shuffling papers in front of him, and shifting slightly.  
“So he exists?” The same voice from before asks. 

Tony pauses, staring into the crowd, his mouth hanging open slightly: Steve takes a sharp breath, as it dawns on Tony that he’s made a huge mistake. _The public don’t know that yet. They can’t be sure he’s real, but Tony’s just confirmed it._

“. . . No comment. No further questions,” Tony says, collecting up his papers, and striding away from the podium, to an uproar of yelling and questions from the crowd. 

The channel reverts back to the studio, where the presenter starts talking at length about Tony Stark confirming the existence of the Winter Soldier – Steve slowly turns to Bucky, who looks a little pale. 

“. . . Fuck,” He breathes. Steve just nods, and knows that they’re all in even more hot water, now, than they were when the day began.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my apology for the fuck-up regarding posting dates of chapters. I've decided to give you an extra chapter early - the next one will be on Monday like normal, because I have wifi now, nice!! 
> 
> Thank you for reading this - there's a lot left to go, sorry if you were expecting something short!! That's not how things work out for me anymore, apparently. Except for the couple of one-shot fics about trans Steve and Bucky I've written, really. 
> 
> Cheers :^)

Steve doesn’t stop fielding calls for a long time. He gets the first one minutes after Tony’s press conference; he only stops taking them when he goes to sleep. Bucky watches him grow more tired and annoyed with each passing hour, but he knows he can’t help, with this. It would just take the wrong person to realise who they were talking to, and he could land himself – and more importantly, Steve – in way more trouble. 

As it is, the press seem to ask the same couple of questions, via Avengers liaison: they all want to know if Steve knew about the Winter Soldier, and could have told the public about him, but chose not to; they all want to know if he knows the identity of the Winter Soldier, or where he is now. They all want to know if Steve knows the Winter Soldier, or not. 

The news channels all have their own theories: unsurprisingly, they all chose to focus on the Winter Soldier ‘reveal’ part of Tony’s interview, rather than his serious discussion of culpability for the devastation in Wakanda, or T’Challa’s concerns and demands for justice. Some channels are nice – they choose to say that Tony didn’t mean the Winter Soldier was _real_ , he was only talking _speculatively_ – while others have swept conspiracy theory websites for ‘intel’.

“My favourite one is that the Winter Soldier is you,” Bucky comments, biting into a slice of toast, as Steve sets his phone down. He raises an eyebrow.  
“How would that even work?” He asks, a glint of amusement in his eye, though he’s weary and fed-up.  
“I don’t know. Multiple personalities. Maybe he’s in the back of your head, like that movie last night,” Bucky suggests glibly.  
“You’re not a dark wizard,” Steve comments – but Bucky can already see that he’s smiling, unable to keep a straight face.  
“. . . It would be easier, if they all believed I was dead,” Bucky suggests.  
“. . . You mean you, or the Winter Soldier?” Steve asks.  
“Both. They’re both me,” Bucky reminds him. He remembers back when he first started therapy, he would often talk about the Winter Soldier in the third person – _his crimes, his kills, his control over Bucky’s body_ – but Franklin told him not to, or else he could dissociate; cause himself serious damage, and never receive proper closure. _Yes, that was you. No, it wasn’t your choice, and it wasn’t your fault._

“I can’t tell them that. People are gonna ask who you are, eventually,” Steve reminds Bucky. He sighs.  
“Not if we’re never seen out together,” He muses.  
“We’re gonna be seen out together, sometime. We’re not always covert, or disguised. It’s only a matter of time before someone sees us round the city, and we end up on a – a gossip blog,”  
“A what?” Bucky asks doubtfully.  
“People make up things about you to go with pictures they’ve taken without permission. They post it online and it’s . . . News,” Steve says, shaking his head. “I’m all for freedom of the press, but I’m also a big believer in _truth_ ,” 

Bucky smiles. “That’s my Stevie,” He mutters. 

Steve’s about to tell him he’s soft, when Friday butts in -  
“Captain Rogers, you have another phone call – the Huffington Post want a comment on the significance of the name Winter Soldier, in your opinion,” She says, and Bucky swears he can hear a note of annoyance in her voice, despite her being an AI. Steve rubs his face with one hand, and looks at Bucky apologetically. 

“It’s alright. I – need to go out. We need some food,” Bucky says.  
“I thought you said you didn’t want to be seen?” Steve asks.  
“I was out for over a year, Steve – I just, don’t want to be spotted with you, in case it blows up in your face,” Bucky comments.  
“And you’ll be alright?” Steve asks, concern obvious in his voice, no matter how casual he tries to make the question sound. He doesn’t want to treat Bucky like a kid, after all.  
“I’ll be fine,” Bucky says, waving the question away, as he gets up and walks out of the room. He kisses Steve on the cheek on the way out, and makes his way to the elevator. 

Steve watches him go with a soft smile, that quickly drops from his face, as he picks up his phone. 

-

It’s hot outside: the heat makes the smell of the city stronger; makes the atmosphere thicker, and heavier, like it’s physically weighing on Bucky’s shoulders as he walks. But he’s used to it. This is where he’s from. _This_ was where he was made – all the parts he wants to embrace, anyway. It’s where Steve was made, too. 

Neither of them were made in the trenches, or in the mountains, or on some table in a lab. That might be where they were changed, but this is where it all began.  
It’s different, yes: the buildings have changed, but the people are still loud. There are more cars, but the sound of the trains is the same, whether they’re above Bucky’s head, or below his feet, audible through steaming gratings. The screeching throws him, a little, until he learns to remember it; to embrace it. 

It might be different, but it’s still _his_. 

He shifts in his green jacket, and tugs the sleeve down a little lower, to cover up the tiny flash of metal visible between the end of the sleeve, and the pocket his left hand is tucked into. Out on the street, anything people can stare at, they will. He’s used to his body being spectated upon. 

It’s too hot to rush, so he tries to slow down: he feels anxious, yes, but that’s only because his potentially dangerous self-defensive reflexes have been dulled, by months living with people who only make him feel safe. Before, he only used to venture out at night, too; he used to travel on the train, and in stolen cars, not making eye contact, or speaking to anyone, where he could. Modern technology made it easier. He got by. But he’s still anxious, now. He knows he could still hurt someone. 

It’s only a matter of minutes before he finds a bodega: he decides to pass it by, for some reason figuring that he shouldn’t go to the one nearest to where he exited the tower. He can’t help but feel a little paranoid that he might lead someone or something horrible to Steve, despite his assurances, earlier, that he would be fine; that this was okay, for him to do. 

The third one he comes across looks quiet enough, at least on the outside, to be safe. It’s fairly large, and he can see a fire escape, meaning there’s at least one exit beside the front door. It’s likely there’s a back door, too, meaning it’s feasible for him to escape. He does the math, before going inside. 

It’s slightly cooler, and a lot darker, inside: there’s a smell of cleaning fluid, and he notices an employee mopping in one of the three small aisles. He pulls down his baseball cap, and takes a trip down the aisle furthest from him. The smell of the chemicals makes his hackles rise. 

He hears the mopping employee chatting with what he assumes is the owner of the shop, who’s at the till; there’s a television on, haphazardly perched beside the cash register. The news is on. They’re talking about Tony, and Steve – and the Winter Soldier. Bucky hunches into himself a little more. 

He picks up a few pieces of fruit, and a bag of chips; a few more bits of food, and a bottle of water, too, for the way home. He didn’t really come for the food: mainly he wanted to prove that he could do it; he wanted to feel useful, given that Steve is back at the tower, fielding endless calls, and figuring out how to say ‘no comment’ in a variety of interesting ways. 

He’s about to go to the checkout, when he catches sight of something at the end of the aisle: he’s transfixed, for a few moments, on a few cheaply-packaged pieces of make-up, with faded pictures of smiling women on the front. There’s one with brushes for applying make-up; one that contains facial make-up; one contains eye make-up, with black eyeshadow, and pencil eyeliner. Cautiously, looking around, he picks up the eye make-up. He doubts it will be very good quality, but – well, he has to practise, somehow. He doesn’t even know if he’ll like how it’ll feel – he suspects he will, but what if it just reminds him of the Winter Soldier too much? What if he feels dangerous – more so than normal – when he’s with Steve, or the others? 

He makes his way to the front of the store, and puts down the items on the counter. The owner is too distracted by the television, and his conversation with his colleague, to really notice him, initially. He bags up the items slowly. Bucky wishes he would hurry, despite knowing he isn’t really in danger. It doesn’t stop him feeling boxed in, like a wild animal, ready to strike. It’s a feeling he actively suppresses; he succeeds, a little. Not as much as he’d like. 

“-thing is, it’s offensive, you know? Winter _Soldier_. Not for nothing, but our boys work hard for us in the Middle East. What, anyone can declare themselves a soldier now? – It makes them all look bad,” The owner is saying.  
“I hear you. They should’ve called him the Winter Scumbag. I heard he tried to kill Cap,” The other employee says.  
“Captain America? – Get outta here. He can’t die,” The owner replies with a snort.  
“Sure he can – he was in hospital for days, after that mess in DC,” The employee says, gesticulating with a mop. 

Bucky shifts, as the owner shoves an apple into the bag. He picks up the make-up, and frowns down at it, as he scans it. He looks up with a raised eyebrow at Bucky; catches his eye, and Bucky curses himself internally, despite the fact he knows _anyone_ should be able to buy _anything_ they want in a store and not be judged. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always cooperate; people can be cruel. 

The owner looks like he’s about to say something, until he notices Bucky getting money out of his pocket, and putting it on the desk. Out of habit, he stored it in his left pocket, and retrieved it with his left hand. The owner catches sight of it, and looks taken aback.

“Whoa, hey – you lose your arm in the war, buddy?” He asks. Bucky pauses, looking down at his prosthesis for a moment, before stiffly replying:  
“Yes,” 

The owner nods, a look of approval on his face.  
“See – that’s a real soldier. Thank you for your service. Real good job you did – not many people woulda put their lives on the line, like that. Especially not this Winter Soldier prick. No respect, in that name,” The owner says, taking Bucky’s left hand, and shaking it. 

Bucky cringes, biting his bottom lip, as his hand grips back slightly too hard; he can see that much, from the owner’s face.  
“I know I couldn’t do it,” The employee says meekly. Bucky looks around at him, and sees that he has a reverent expression, to match the owner’s.  
“. . . Thank you,” Bucky says, and nods. Finally all his items are bagged, and the owner accepts his money.  
“Did they ever see what he looked like?” The employee says. The owner shrugs, opening the cash drawer, seeming to go at a snail’s pace, to Bucky. He doesn’t want to make a break for it; he wants to finish the transaction, and take his stuff, and leave quietly, and bring it to Steve. He wants to prove himself, but they _had_ to be talking about this. Tony _had_ to bring it up, and shift all the heat from himself, in this way. It’s worked well for him, though – no one seems to care about Tony’s transgressions, at least for now. 

“Nope. I’ve seen some shit, though. There’s these websites – they say they’ve been through all that shit that got put on the internet, last summer. They say he’s like a cyborg – like, he has mechanical parts, and shit like that,” The owner says, his voice dropping, and becoming almost conspiratorial. Bucky can see his change in his hand. He doesn’t grab it. 

“So he’s not even a human?” The employee says, eyebrows raised. The owner shrugs, as if to say, _there you have it_.  
“Right. And definitely not a soldier,” The owner says triumphantly. He turns to Bucky, and hands him his change. “Thank you, sir. Have a good day, alright?” 

Bucky nods, and manages a tight smile, as he shuffles out of the store, grabbing the paper bag as he goes. He hears them talking, even as he leaves, when they think he can’t hear them.  
“Poor bastard. I’d be furious, if I was him. _Winter Soldier_ – ha!” 

He takes a few minutes to calm himself, after that: he walks around the block, consciously trying to bring down his heart rate; doing sums in his head, to distract himself, from what just happened. He finds that recovering from stressful social situations takes less, with every try. He’s getting better at them, he knows, despite how completely _awful_ he can feel during them. When he revaluates, he really wasn’t that bad. Still – he heads back to the tower, anyway. 

He only makes one stop, on his way home: he stops at a large coffee shop, because Steve likes the sugary, iced drinks they do there – they’re a guilty pleasure of his, Bucky knows, having seen the cups in the fridge, and in the trashcan. Bucky used to be kept on a controlled diet, for medical reasons, during the early stages of his recovery, so Steve wouldn’t eat in front of him. But Bucky always knew he liked a wide variety of stuff, from the waste he’d try and clean up. 

Ordering is hard, because he doesn’t want to mess up: his memory’s gotten better, and he can vividly remember what the cup of Steve’s coffee looks like; he thinks he can remember the name of the coffee, too. He steps up to the counter, and asks in a quiet voice, for a large caramel iced frappuccino. 

“Name?” The woman serving him asks. She looks him right in the eye, before her gaze drifts downwards; her stare isn’t judgemental in the way he’s used to. It’s the same as the one he catches Steve directing at him, when he thinks he isn’t looking, sometimes. He gulps, looking at her blankly for a few seconds, before saying,  
“James,” And handing his money over. 

He stands in the busy waiting area, and he’s dismayed but not shocked to find out that there’s a TV in here, too; the other customers waiting there impatiently are staring at a news report, with the subtitles turned on, about the events of two summers ago; the Winter Soldier. 

He reads the subtitles, as it’s too loud in the shop to hear the TV: they just go on and on, citing unsubstantiated information from conspiracy theory websites, and presenting it like _evidence_. He’s pretty sure he’s not the one behind the Vietnam war – well, he wouldn’t bet money on it, either way – but the news channels seem to suggest that. They’ve got it all figured out, apparently. 

He gets the feeling he’s being watched: when he glances around him, more than one person is staring. They avert their gazes, when he looks, but his finely-tuned senses can feel their eyes sliding back to him, as soon as he’s not looking at them anymore. 

He hears hisses of whispers, as he shifts between his feet, waiting for Steve’s coffee to be ready; watching others collect theirs. The sound of the machines is making him jumpy; he can still distinguish voices that think they’re quiet:  
“Looks like the picture,”  
“So could anyone,”  
“But look-”

Bucky looks up at the TV again, and spots an artist’s impression of himself: for the most part, it’s spot on. The long hair, the stubble – and the metal arm, which is actually pretty accurate. The subtitles indicate that several ex-shield agents, scarred by the day the helicarriers fell, have given interviews where they were asked for descriptions of him. He doesn’t find that he regrets leaving them alive to tell the tale – he suddenly wishes they were all alive, everyone he’s murdered, with more force than he usually does, and that he could just _pay_ for what he’s done. 

It’s all his fault. People died, because of him.  
“James?” A voice calls. His eyes snap from the TV to the woman who’s smiling at him from the desk: her expression falters, when she sees something like fear in his eyes. He reaches out automatically, and it happens so fast: he clutches onto the cup, and someone spots his metal hand. 

“Hey! – Hey, wait a second!” A voice calls to him, as he turns to leave. People stand up from their tables, at the commotion.  
“It looks like-”

He breaks into a run, to a chorus of people yelling at him to stop; people cursing, and hollering. But he can’t stop. He can’t jeopardise Steve. Steve would be destroyed, if anything happened to him – he wouldn’t worry about the consequences for _himself_ , but he’d care about what happened to Bucky. Which is what Bucky’s afraid of. He wishes Steve would get more help than he does. 

A few people give chase, half-heartedly: Bucky outruns them easily, with his super-soldier speed backing him up; he runs until he can’t quite decide where he is. He stops, and takes a gulp of water, before trying to orientate himself, despite the sun and the heat trying to counteract his thought processes. He tries not to panic, and to relax: it’s hard, when people just _saw_ him. They didn’t just look, and look away, this time. They wanted to catch him – to hurt him. What if he’d gone into combat mode? What if he’d hurt them? All of them – innocent people. Just trying to do their duty. _He hurt Captain America, after all. That’s all they know._

He ducks into an alley, and leans against a grimy wall: he shuts his eyes, breathes deep, and tries more sums. He collects himself for a few minutes, but realises he can do this. _The Tower is west of here. I can find my way home._

It takes a little longer than it did on the way there; he’s even more suspicious of passers-by, and he walks a lot quicker, but he eventually gets there. The receptionist lets him through to the private elevator without any questions, not even batting an eyelid, as she’s been instructed. He takes the few short seconds in the elevator up to Steve’s floor to collect himself, though he knows he probably still looks shaken. He _feels_ shaken.

When he gets there, he knocks on the front door, checking left towards the laundry, and right towards the emergency stairs, as he waits. He wishes he’d remembered to grab Steve’s keys, on the way out, so he could enter quietly, unnoticed. He doesn’t want to pick the lock, right now, but he also doesn’t know if he wants Steve to see him like this. 

Steve opens the door, on the phone to someone, and arguing with whoever it is: his words come to an abrupt halt, when he sees Bucky’s pale face. It’s immediately obvious, as Bucky suspected, that something happened. 

“. . . I’ll call you back,” Steve says, before hanging up the phone, and stowing it immediately. “Buck? – What happened?” He asks, taking in the coffee in Bucky’s left hand, and the bag of food in his right, that he’s holding stiffly, like both of his arms are made of wood. 

“I – they – some people,” Bucky says, shaking his head, and frowning in exasperation. “They recognised m-me,” He says, and he’d be signing, now, if his hands weren’t full.  
“What?! - Are you alright? – Jesus,” Steve exclaims in horror. Bucky can see the anger, at the fact the news has caused this to happen to Bucky, written on his face. He can’t handle the anger right now, though. He wants – well, he’s not sure. He can’t put it into words; it’s nothing Hydra ever offered him, that he wants. 

But if he could guess, he’d probably say he wanted _comfort_. So, though his hands are full, he throws his arms around Steve, and kisses him on the lips. 

After initial surprise, Steve gets the memo: his lips part, and he kisses back, sensing the desperation and the need to feel _safe_ in the way Bucky clings to him. He cradles Bucky’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing against his stubble in a slow, soothing motion.  
“I didn’t want to hurt them,” Bucky whispers.  
“Did you?” Steve asks, on edge for a moment. Bucky shakes his head. Steve kisses him again, feeling relieved and proud. Bucky would probably have done some serious damage, six or seven months ago. 

They don’t really hear the elevator go off: they definitely don’t see Tony step out, carrying a large box with him. They miss his shocked expression; his gape, as he struggles to come up with the words for what he’s seeing. He always knew Steve was close to Barnes, but – well, he didn’t suspect they were _this_ close. 

Now he understands. Now he gets it. He knew Cap could be compromised in some way – hell, nobody’s perfect – but he never thought _this_ would be it. 

And now he’s seen this, he knows Steve will never back him up, or see his way of thinking, when it comes to Barnes. He knows this is going to divide the team – and he can’t be sure of anyone’s support, anymore. Well – aside from the senator, who called him the other day. He needs support, given the fact that the media and the government are still all over him, about Ultron. 

He decides to schedule that meeting with the senator a little earlier than planned, after all. 

Tony clears his throat, and Steve and Bucky automatically break from one another – Bucky turns around, and seeing that it’s Tony, freezes. He didn’t want to share this with the others – _especially_ not Tony, who hates his guts – right now. But here he is.  
“Special delivery,” Tony says, dumping the box at his feet. “If you can spare a moment,” He adds, before stepping back into the elevator. As the doors shut, he gets in a bitter, “You’re welcome,” Directed at Bucky. 

“Tony, wait-” Steve says, stepping up to the doors – but they’re already shut, and Tony’s already gone. Steve sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck.  
“Did you know he was coming?” Bucky asks, surprised; he still hasn’t quite gotten over the cringe he feels, at the fact Tony just saw them kissing. And is wasn’t a chaste kiss, either. It was a desperate, needy, _thank God you’re okay_ kiss. 

“. . . He mentioned he might come round _tomorrow_ ,” Steve says. “Says he can deal with the fallout from the conference better here. I – didn’t know he was delivering something,” Steve mentions, his gaze falling to the item on the floor. He and Bucky stare at it for a moment, reading the text on it: it’s addressed to Bucky. There’s only one thing it could be. 

“. . . Come on. We’ve got our work cut out,” Steve says, picking up the surprisingly light box, and leading Bucky through the threshold, with a hand at his back. “. . . Thank you for the coffee,” He adds.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around!! 
> 
> A lot of things happen in this chapter. It has a bit in it that I wrote about six or seven months ago, and a character that I decided looked like Daniel Brühl when he was cast a while back. That's not really important, it's just something I'm thinking about when I'm writing, sometimes!! 
> 
> Thanks _so_ much for your support, as always - the update schedule is back to normal, now that I have wifi, again. Cheers!!

Bucky is clearly anxious to see the new prosthesis: it would be obvious, to Steve, even if he didn’t know that Bucky had had very similar mechanical limbs for close to decades, now; this could be a real change, for him. It will probably alter his life. 

Steve gets a pair of scissors, and cuts open the box, which sits between them on the couch: almost furtively, Bucky pulls the cardboard aside, and reveals a lot of padding, all coloured black. Steve thinks wistfully that it’s just as well there’s a lot of packaging in the box, what with the way Tony basically dumped it on their doorstep. He wonders, despite his annoyance, whether or not Tony is okay; how he’s dealing with the media fallout from his mistake, as well as from T’Challa’s criticisms, and the Ultron enquiry the government are still dealing with. 

But he doesn’t want to think about that, now – not when Bucky is digging through the packaging with a solemn expression, retrieving his new limb. Steve has plenty of things to be doing – not least, fielding about a million phone calls – but there’s nowhere he can be but here. There’s nowhere he’d rather be, than here for Bucky, right now. 

Bucky gently lifts the new limb from the box: it’s a darker shade of grey than his current silver arm – almost black, like gunmetal, and less shiny, too. The panels look more angular, and less curved, than the current limb – and, they both realise as Bucky’s flesh fingers trace over the deltoid region, there’s no red star. _There’s nothing there._

“. . . It’s not branded,” Bucky breathes. Steve just nods – he hadn’t put it past Tony to include the Stark logo, somewhere, but from here he can’t see one.  
“You don’t belong to anyone,” Steve says softly. Bucky looks up for the first time since he opened the box – he looks stricken, for a second, before he sees Steve’s expression. It’s kind, and Steve’s happy for him.  
“Not even you?” Bucky asks. Steve thinks he might be completely serious.  
“Not even me. Not the Avengers – not Tony, even though he made you this. You don’t owe anyone anything. You’re not property,” Steve reminds him. He remembers Bucky telling him he had nothing to prove, before the war: he still felt that he did, anyway. So Bucky's feeling that he owes his allies something is probably going to be hard to shake, he knows. 

Bucky nods, but bites his lip. He tilts his head down, but Steve can see that his eyes are staring at one fixed point on the prosthesis – he’s just thinking, unseeing, lost in his considerations. Steve doesn’t know that he’s wondering about all the different ways to belong to someone. 

He blinks, and touches the place where the red star would be, again: he purses his lips, and thinks about how _weird_ it looks. Steve shifts, and asks:  
“What do you think?” Sometimes Bucky disappears into himself – it’s a problem Bucky knows about, even though he’s not really aware when he’s doing it.  
“. . . It looks strange without the star. I’ve wanted it gone since I realised what it meant, but now I don’t know,” Bucky confesses, shaking his head slightly. He looks a little angry – angry at himself, perhaps, for feeling like this.  
“This is new territory, for you – there’s no game-plan, here. Don’t beat yourself up too much, Buck. It’s alright,” Steve tries. He’s not Bucky’s therapist, but he knows a thing or two about novel territory; having no one to really understand what he’s going through. He was the only man frozen for seven decades, before Bucky re-emerged, after all. 

“Come on. Let’s see it,” Steve says, gesturing to the box. Bucky does as he says – he pulls the new prosthesis from the packaging, as Steve watches on. Bucky’s surprised by how light it is: being acutely aware of his right arm, always, he reckons that it weighs approximately the same. The places where the muscles should be are better defined, based on a human arm, rather than what will do the most damage with brute force. 

He examines the fixture: SHIELD took extensive x-rays and scans of his body, as well as examining his arm with non-invasive imaging techniques, so he knows Tony probably has access to some pretty comprehensive information about the mechanisms. It’s no surprise, then, that the top of the arm looks pretty much identical to the existing limb. The arm is designed to fit with the current mechanism, which is fused directly to his skin where his arm meets his body, and the end of what remains of his arm. It’s complicated, but then again, Hydra experimented with it a lot – what gave him the greatest range or mobility; what had the least chance of causing glitches or spontaneous detachment; what caused him too much agony to be able to move, or see straight. 

“Look good?” Steve asks anxiously. Bucky nods again. “How do you turn it on?” Steve wonders aloud – but then spots a set of instructions, and points them out to Bucky. 

Bucky picks up the instructions – but unfortunately, they’re handwritten.  
“. . . Here. You can probably understand this better than me,” Bucky says, handing Steve the notes to decipher. Steve rolls his eyes, but agrees.  
“It says it should start up when you slot it in place – you have to spend a little while calibrating it – getting the receiver connected to your neural implant,” Steve points out. Bucky nods, thinking that it’s a small price to pay. 

He sets the limb down, and takes off his jacket; he tugs off his t-shirt, and registers the way Steve cringes at the sight of his torso, like he does pretty much every time. It’s less and less with every occasion, but Bucky knows he feels consumed with guilt, when he sees the scars from Zola’s initial experimentation – as well as, of course, the ones around his prosthesis. 

Given that Bucky didn’t have to detach his arm in the end, after it froze, Steve’s not really seen Bucky without his prosthesis; the times he’s seen him without it, he’s worn a shirt to cover the state of his skin under the usual metal. So this time, when Bucky touches the space behind his ear, closes his eyes, and pulls his prosthesis off with a concerted effort, Steve has to suppress a gasp.

The skin is red, where a small portion of his arm remains: it’s all scar tissue, and inflammation. Bucky doesn’t look like he’s in pain; Steve can’t help a small yet horrified, “God-”

Bucky looks up at him in surprise, setting his old arm down on the coffee table.  
“What?” He asks, seemingly clueless about what’s making Steve so horrified.  
“Your arm-” He says. Bucky looks down at it like it’s never occurred to him, that it might be more graphically injured than expected; that it might not be what he deserves. The physical manifestation of the torture, and the horror, that he’s been through. 

And he smiles sadly. 

“I don’t feel it,” He says. “The pain. I don’t feel it. Not anymore,” He explains, placating Steve, who looks disturbed; he can barely look at Bucky’s arm, covered in jagged scars, and stitching that’s so obviously _barbaric_ , even seven decades later; even despite Bucky’s serum. 

This is less of a problem, for Steve. The scars from where Bucky shot him have already faded into nothing. While it’s hard to scar Bucky, it looks like Hydra succeeded – Steve doesn’t want to know whether or not they were trying. He bites his lip, steeling himself to look at Bucky’s arm, again. Bucky catches his expression, and takes a deep breath, before saying:  
“Touch it. I promise I won’t feel any pain,” He gets the same feeling he had before, when Wanda was about to delve into his mind, and remove the triggers from it – like he wants to comfort Steve, and tell him it’s not his fault, despite the fact it’s something that happened to _him_. It’s his body – it’s not Steve’s responsibility. 

Steve doesn’t protest: Bucky knows this is hard, for him, but Steve uncharacteristically overthinks things when it comes to Bucky. If Bucky doesn’t reassure him about this, now, he’ll just worry about him; just like after the freezer, at the AIM base. 

Steve reaches out, and brushes his fingertips against the skin, cut up as it is with old injuries; he feels the grooves and contours, glancing between the missing limb and Bucky’s face, for any trace of pain. The skin might be red and angry, but Bucky looks apathetic; he looks like it doesn’t hurt, as he says.  
“I know you’re touching me. I feel _something_. But it doesn’t hurt anymore,” Bucky mutters. “Means I can manage – with my prosthesis. It’s heavy, but I’m strong, and my arm can take it. I can take it,” Bucky reassures Steve. 

Steve’s fingers slide up to Bucky’s shoulder; his thumb presses into Bucky’s collarbone gently, as he pauses to collect himself. He removes it, and Bucky takes up the new arm: with little difficulty, he slots it into the existing mechanism, which pulls it into place easily. 

The spaces between the panels light up a faint, glowing blue, as it boots up: to Bucky’s surprise, he can move the arm almost instantaneously, and with _very_ little noise. The movements are a little overzealous, due to the fact he’s used to lifting a limb that’s significantly heavier, usually: the control required for this limb is a lot more nuanced, and subtle. 

He taps the fingers of his left hand against the thumb, and half-smiles. 

“I wonder if you can turn the glowing off,” He thinks aloud. Steve picks up the instructions again, and scans them until he reads a part that covers that –  
“God, there's loads of functions - but it says there should be-” He looks up, one eyebrow raised, at the limb. “There should be a button, just under the arm. There’s a setting for no light, and a setting for-” He pauses his reading, as Bucky finds the button. 

Bucky looks up at Steve, frowning, looking worried – “What?”  
“. . . Flesh-coloured. For about 5 hours a day – it takes extra energy. You might get fatigued,” Steve says. Bucky’s eyebrows raise, like he can’t believe it. He knows that civilian prostheses are flesh-coloured, but he always thought that he wouldn’t be able to achieve that function – it was a necessary sacrifice, to have an arm as functional as his. Until now, apparently. 

Bucky taps the button twice, and watches as the panels fade out, replaced with a skin tone that’s just a little lighter than his own: there aren’t any fingernails on his left hand, and there are no believable contours or folds in the skin of his fingers, but it’s much better – the new default colour was already a lot less eye-catching, but this will do wonders for him, in terms of being recognised. 

“I – maybe I can stop getting recognised,” Bucky says reverently. “I can wear a t-shirt, in public,” He points out, smiling. “Maybe I should – maybe I should send Tony a thank-you note,” He says, laughing a little hysterically.  
“Yeah – maybe,” Steve says, still not really believing how good the arm is. He always thought Tony would never be able to make something _subtle_ , or _discrete_ , given that all his suits are bulky, brightly-coloured, and shining. Perhaps he got his fill of _flashy_ , on this project, with the glowing between the panels. 

Bucky taps the button again, and sets the arm back to the default appearance: he holds out his palm towards Steve, and he can’t deny, it looks similar to an Iron Man mk. 42 glove. 

“He did it,” Steve murmurs – he brings up his palm, and presses it against Bucky’s hand. “. . . It’s warmer,” He comments. Bucky smiles, feeling _very_ grateful for that: cold isn’t something Steve deals with well, in his living memory. He doesn’t doubt that, during the war, he was able to deal with it stoically, just like he did everything; now, he can’t stand it. He puts up with it, but Bucky hates to feel like he’s causing him pain and distress, when he touches him with a cold, metal hand. 

But Steve’s expression has faltered again. His hand drops into his lap, and he gazes down at it. Bucky’s too nervous to ask what’s wrong, suddenly – when Steve looks at him again, he signs it, instead. _What’s the matter?_

“I’m so sorry you – sorry you had to go through this. Sorry I didn’t come back for you,”  
“We’ve been over this,” Bucky reminds Steve. “You didn’t know. It was me, or the war,”  
“But I-” _I would’ve chosen you, if I could have seen this. I would have come for you. I would’ve done everything I could._

“. . . I hear you calling out for me, in your night terrors, sometimes,” Steve says. Bucky blinks hard, looking like he’s been slapped. Steve’s quick to dismiss the statement, “I don’t mean to – I don’t know what you’re seeing, you don’t have to say-”  
“I only thought you might come for a couple of weeks. Couldn’t have been more,” Bucky says, his voice gravelly; Steve can tell the memory has just hit him like a bus. He needs this. He needs to talk about this _now_. 

“They told me you were gone. I didn’t believe them, so they got hold of a newspaper to show me – they gloated, about it. Told me you weren’t coming, because you’d been killed – they edited out the fact you won the war, but – but they showed me you died. They put in quotes from Peggy, and the Commandos – the Colonel, and – and they were all so much like what they’d say, I knew it was real, and – they said they missed me, that I was dead," Bucky recounts, looking as if he's concentrating hard on remembering the detail. "I didn't go quietly. I screamed – _so_ loud, Stevie – I screamed like I thought maybe they’d hear me. Like maybe it’d bring you to me,” He says, his voice quiet and confessional; hoarse, as he looks down at his old limb. 

“. . . But you were dead, and I – I was crippled, and I _hated_ the fake arms – I thought I’d be useless, to you, if you came. I didn’t think you’d need me, and this – this arm was just me pretending otherwise. Pretending to be useful, and whole,” He tells Steve. He’s told his therapist about the timeline of his abuse, and torture, at length – but he’s only shared the bare minimum to Steve, until now. 

“You don't have to be _useful_ to me, Buck. But you are,” Steve says softly. “Doesn’t matter how many limbs you’ve got or – or what you remember, or what’s happened to you,” He reminds him.  
“I didn’t see it like that. I knew you’d never give up the fight, if you were alive. You wouldn’t want me there,” Bucky confesses.  
“I’ll always-” Steve gulps, and Bucky looks up at him. 

His eyes are rimmed with red; Bucky can see that a couple of tears have rolled off his pale face, and fallen onto his dark blue shirt, staining it darker for a time. He sniffs, and wipes at his face, while all else is silent. Bucky’s still looking up at him expectantly, though, when he looks back at him. He doesn’t want anything to go unsaid. Steve realises he doesn’t, either. Not again. 

“. . . I’ll always want you, Buck,” He says.  
Bucky can’t help but smile, at that: he pushes the empty box into the floor, and scoots closer to Steve, putting his new arm around him; his flesh arm, too. He presses his bare chest up to Steve’s shirt, and takes a deep breath, taking in the smell of Steve – something so ingrained within him, that it can in itself bring him back from the brink, sometimes. 

“I want you too, Stevie,” He murmurs, as Steve’s hand creeps up to cradle his head, fingers laced in his hair. He stops short of saying that he regrets there ever being a time that he wasn’t one hundred percent sure of that. 

“Will you help me with something?” Bucky asks. Steve pulls away, hands sliding to Bucky’s upper arms, as he does so.  
“What is it?” He asks. Bucky glances down at his new arm, and pauses, smiling conspiratorially for a second. Steve smiles too, finding that Bucky’s expression – one that rings true in his mind, clear like a bell, all the way from the thirties and forties – is infectious. His tears aren’t much past dried, before Bucky’s making him grin, again. _That’s Bucky, for you._

“You still got your set of paints?” 

-

The office door opens without preamble: without knocking, Tony strides inside. 

The senator stands from the seat at his desk, getting a measure of the other man for a few seconds: _tired_. He looks tired, as if he’s been up. Though his suit is pressed and sharp, and his shoes glint in the light from the lamp on the desk, the darkness in his eyes betrays him. 

It’s almost ten o’clock in the evening, the senator notes from the clock on the wall. They’d organised the meeting for six o’clock, ostensibly – but then again, he knows that Tony Stark doesn’t keep time well, _especially_ if he doesn’t want to attend the meeting. He probably suspected this meeting would be boring - the senator, though, has other plans. He’ll make it worth his while. He had meetings throughout the day, because he was prepared for this to happen. His foresight is just one of the skills that have done him well, throughout his career. 

“Mr. Stark,” He says, smiling and holding out a hand for him to shake.  
“Senator. It’s _doctor_ , actually. Everyone always forgets. But, you know. It’s nothing. Just years of research. Innovative green energy projects that will save millions of lives. That kind of thing,” Tony says, without taking his hand – but there’s less of a bite to his words than there might usually be. He sighs loudly, and takes a seat in front of the senator’s mahogany desk. 

The senator’s smile doesn’t falter as he withdraws his offered hand. He makes his way back to his chair, and sits down: the desk is clear, the pens neatly arranged, and the documents all sealed inside files. He’d hate to provide the billionaire with any confidential information – accidentally, that is. His plans, otherwise, may involve divulging one or two things. 

“Are you well?” The senator asks. Tony scrubs a hand down his face, and fixes the senator with a look that provides him with the answer he’s looking for; all the detail he needs. The senator makes an expression he hopes appears sympathetic, as he says, “I see,”  
“You don’t know the half of it,” Tony says, grimacing.  
“Then enlighten me,” The senator says, his fingers forming a steeple, which he peers over.  
“What, you wanna know about Avengers domestics?” Tony asks, raising an eyebrow.  
“It is more . . . _Relevant_ than you might imagine,” The senator replies. 

Tony sits back, folding his arms: he looks the senator up and down; looks out of the window, and says, “Super-soldiers. Don’t invite them into your home. They’ll eat all your food and demand next-gen upgrades to prosthetic limbs,” He explains bitterly.  
“You are referring to Sergeant Barnes,” The senator says, with an expression of intrigue.  
“You’re keeping tabs on him?” Tony asks, appearing genuinely curious. Clearly, he’s been wondering how closely Barnes has been being monitored; how much attention government factions are paying to the new Avengers roster.  
“We are . . . _Aware_ of him,” The senator says. Tony raises an eyebrow.  
“And how much are you _aware_ of?” He asks coyly. The senator smiles thinly.  
“A lot. But we have not been able to secure permission to incarcerate him – given the destruction of evidence that Barnes himself has undertaken,”  
“Yeah. The Bucky Barnes revenge road-trip didn’t really have any good results,” Tony says wistfully. “Is this what you wanted to talk about? Cause I’m a busy man,”  
“Quite,” The senator says, leaning forward. “How are public relations?”  
“Shit,” Tony says, exhibiting brevity for the first time the senator thinks he’s ever seen. He knows Tony doesn’t like talking about Ultron, and the catastrophic results of his creation and subsequent mishandling. Stark has had a target on his back ever since the incident, which – uncharacteristically – he’s found hard to shake, both due to government attention, and high-profile criticism from people like T’Challa. 

The senator nods; he pauses for a second, before reaching beneath his desk, and retrieving a bottle of scotch.  
“Drink?” He asks Tony: he considers it, for a moment. The senator watches carefully as the thought process plays out on his face, for him to see, before he finally agrees. 

The senator pours out two drinks: he slides one to Tony across the desk, before taking a sip first. 

“I think that, perhaps, I have a solution to your problems,” The senator says. 

Tony snorts into his drink.  
“Really?” He asks: his condescending tone fails to annoy the senator. He can tell, already, that his plan will succeed – clearly, Tony Stark is pretty desperate. The senator can work with _desperate_. He has already won. 

“Indeed – but before I discuss the details of my plan with you, you must promise that you will not let the details of it leave this room. Are you able to promise that?” He asks, watching carefully. 

Tony doesn’t break eye contact, as he takes a sip of his drink; he swallows it with only the slightest of winces, still fixing the senator with his hard gaze. He looks incredibly serious, and even more fatigued, now. 

“Sure. I guess it’s my patriotic duty,” He finally replies.  
“More of a – gentlemen’s agreement,” The senator says.  
“Okay – agreed. Now how is being a gentleman going to solve all my problems?” Tony asks, trying to sound nonchalant. His desperation is evident to the senator, though, despite his attempts to hide it. He hides his smile behind his hand, taking another drink, before schooling his expression. 

“It seems to me, Mr. Stark, that you are in need of a distraction,” The senator says. Tony nods for him to go on. “A distraction from recent events – you need scrutiny diverted from you, onto something else. Or perhaps, _someone_ else,” The senator explains.  
“A scapegoat?” Tony asks doubtfully.  
“Precisely. And, well . . . It seems to me that you are already in possession of everything you need to be able to execute a plan that would provide just that,” The senator reasons.  
“In possession?” Tony asks thoughtfully, taking another sip of his drink. He’s almost finished it, the senator notes.  
“I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Stark. The last day has seen a dip in public interest in your transgressions, in favour of your revelations about the Winter Soldier. On a related note, I feel passionately that Sergeant Barnes must be detained, at all costs. He is a danger to the public, and has killed many, many people. He needs to at least stand trial. And yet he’s out there, right now – in your building, no less-”  
“-not by my choice,” Tony retorts defensively.  
“Then how would you like to be rid of him?” The senator asks. 

Tony leans forward a little, and the senator knows he’s got him. 

“. . . You want to use Barnes as the scapegoat,” Tony states – it’s not a big leap of logic, given the public’s reaction to the news about the Winter Soldier, yesterday. The senator nods, maintaining an earnest expression.  
“America is in crisis. SHIELD is gone, and people do not feel secure. The detention of a terror threat, such as Barnes, would make them feel more secure in their homes. And the fact that you helped apprehend him . . . Well, that would do wonders for your public image. Perhaps you and your team would be allowed to recommence your work, unquestioned, with the public safe in the knowledge that you are more than able to protect them from threats . . . Threats like Barnes,” 

Tony reaches for the bottle, and pours himself another drink without asking; he does so slowly, deliberately, clearly preoccupied. He clasps his glass in his hands, staring down at it, and considering the senator’s logic. The senator can see, from his face, that he knows it makes sense. He cannot deny the reasoning behind it. Tony Stark being responsible for detaining the Winter Soldier, or at least appearing to, would jump-start the rehabilitation of his public image – and the public can always stomach a good comeback. 

“. . . I’m not sure they would go for it. The public don’t know much about Barnes – hell, he’s a war hero,” Tony points out. The senator isn’t perturbed.  
“They know the Winter Soldier, though. We would have to expose him,” The senator suggests.  
“Right, but – even then . . . Well, Steve wouldn’t go for this. He’d tell them Barnes was brainwashed, and then we’re looking at civil war,” 

The senator downs the last of his drink, and watches as Stark does the same. He reaches for the bottle again, and the senator lets him. 

“It is true, there would be a difference of opinion . . . Exactly how close are Rogers and Barnes?” He asks.  
“ _Close_. And not like brothers, either,” Tony says, wincing as he thinks about walking in on the two super soldiers kissing. It’s not an experience he’d like to repeat.  
“And how would the public take this news? . . . Particularly in the wake of the revelations about Barnes?” The senator asks, his voice delicate, but his words deliberate and calculated. 

There’s a long, drawn-out period of loaded silence: the atmosphere in the room is tense, as Tony stills, and looks into the senator’s eyes. After a moment or two, he answers. 

“. . . It would be enough to smear Barnes,” He realises. He finds his mouth is dry, though, as he adds, “. . . Steve, too,”  
“That remains to be seen,” The senator says, sitting back in his seat. “Evidence would be required – in case rumour alone is not enough. It hasn’t been so far, after all – you’ve seen the papers discussing Rogers’ personal life,”  
“And that’s what you need me for. You don’t have the evidence, and you need it,” Tony gathers.  
“Are you willing to provide it?” 

Tony is silent, for a moment. So the senator continues. 

“This truly _would_ be doing your patriotic duty. The country needs stability – and it needs a catalyst, such as the apprehension of Barnes, to help kick-start its recovery. Barnes’ _sentencing_ would mark the end of HYDRA in the public’s mind, and put an end to that whole fiasco. On the back of that, think of all that could be achieved: a new alternative to SHIELD could be formed, with the Avengers in charge. The benefits to you, as I’m sure you’re aware, would be enormous,” He adds.  
“. . . But not for Steve,” Tony says, sighing. He rubs his eyes again. 

“The two of you don’t get along – that much is widely known. He doesn’t trust your judgement – doesn’t think you’re willing to sacrifice anything for your country, like he is. I’ve read the files,” The senator says. “He’s been somewhat of a loose cannon, lately, too,”  
“That’s to do with Barnes, through and through,” Tony remarks. True, Steve didn’t mind breaking the rules, before Barnes came back – but now, he’s always going out of the way to placate him; setting himself on fire, to keep Barnes warm. That’s what it’s looked like, to Tony, anyway, throughout Barnes' recovery. It’s taken its toll on several members of the team, if not all of them.  
“Then perhaps with Barnes’ removal, he’ll see sense. He’s Captain America – he even stands a chance of surviving the media onslaught, having proven himself time and time again as a servant of this country – unlike Barnes,”  
“. . . You really think Steve could carry on, after this? Without Barnes?” 

The senator pauses, looking out of the window for a moment, pretending to consider it; mirroring Tony’s posture as he does so.  
“I believe . . . That Rogers is strong. He’s lost Barnes before, and he’s remained loyal. It would be unpatriotic to let him carry on this way, with a fugitive – a _murderer_ , no less,” The senator reminds Tony with a pointed look.  
“Right,” Tony says, though he isn’t agreeing, outright. His mouth is dry, thinking about his parents’ deaths, again. 

Tony taps his fingers against the glass in a quick, erratic rhythm: the senator can see the billionaire’s thought processes play out across his face, yet again, perhaps a little slower than they would usually. He truly is thoroughly worn-down, and therefore vulnerable. The senator’s expression remains sincere – slowly, discretely, he brushes his fingers against the ring he wears on his left hand, fingers trailing over the smooth, yellow stone set into the gold. A gift from some associates. 

“Are you willing to provide me with the evidence I need to help heal this country?” The senator asks, his voice a touch gentler; almost hypnotising.

After a long moment, Tony looks up: his expression has a sense of finality to it, and the set of his jaw is determined.  
“None of the others are permanently affected, by this. Don’t drag them down with him. They don’t deserve it,” He insists in a low voice.  
“You have my word,” The senator says, the silky quality remaining in his voice. Tony finally nods, and stands. He holds out his hand, and the senator shakes it, with a quick smile, sealing their deal. “Be aware, though, that there is no turning back, once we have started this plan – I’m sure you have already calculated every possible risk,” He flatters.  
“I have. I always do the math,” Tony assures him.  
“And you’re aware that to detain a . . . _Super-soldier_ , the use of some more _colourful_ characters may be necessary? – Men of my own choosing?”  
“We can discuss logistics later – but I’m used to hanging out with colourful characters, believe me,” Tony dismisses.  
“These are darker shades, Mr. Stark,” The senator assures him. That doesn’t give Tony much pause, before he nods.  
“Of course,” 

The senator stands, straightening out his suit jacket, and smiling with a zeal he hopes isn’t inappropriate for the situation at hand:  
“Have the evidence required with me by the end of the week, Mr. – _Dr._ Stark,”  
“Senator Zemo,” Starks says by way of a goodbye, before walking out, without another word. The senator watches him go, without closing the door behind him; he gets up to shut it himself, before walking to the window. 

Outside, the street lights sparsely illuminate the summer night: the last of the day’s natural light has only just faded, and the days are long. 

_The end of Hydra._ Zemo smiles, to himself, as he watches Stark get in his overly-ostentatious sports car, and drive away, needlessly breaking DC speed regulations in the process, undoubtedly, on the way to the airport. His private jet has accumulated a huge number of miles, of late. 

Not the end, but the rebirth: the asset destroyed all the relics from the old regime, allowing a new one to rise from the ashes of their near-success; word from Hydra factions overseas have told Zemo that they are ready to infiltrate the US government, once again, and start afresh. In the wake of the asset being apprehended, convicted, and hopefully sentenced to a lifetime in a maximum-security facility – or worse – he knows that his career will inevitably blossom, and improve, even beyond all that he’s achieved so far with Hydra’s help. He will make sure the asset suffers; he’ll make sure he personally gets the best, out of this. 

Not only that, but there is potential for him to move up in Hydra, too: his late father’s name buys him only so much credibility within the organisation, but this . . . This is surely likely to catapult him straight to the top, he thinks, twisting his ring as he contemplates. He wordlessly gives thanks to those who entrusted him with it. 

He’ll do Johann Schmidt proud. He’ll end Captain America and Sergeant Barnes, and damage their legacy, for good. 

-

Tony’s early to the next meeting: Natasha’s summoned them all for a debrief on the AIM base, now that SHIELD have had the chance to interview those in charge of the base they raided; now that the volunteers have been quarantined, and interviewed, and almost all of them released without charge. She’s got information for further missions and bases she needs to share. 

Where once Tony would have been incredibly grateful for the chance to smash AIM, and anything of Aldrich Killian’s legacy, given what he did to Pepper and how he tried to hurt Rhodey, today he’s distracted. He’s been turning over Zemo’s suggestion all night – even during his five hours of sleep, he seemed to be considering it; whether or not it’s worth it, to leak the fact that Bucky is the Winter Soldier, and that he’s getting cosy with Steve. 

But every time he considers whether or not effectively outing Steve and Bucky is the right thing to do, he finds his head filled with one thought: he thinks about how, these last few days, his own faults have received a lot less media attention, given that it’s all been on the Winter Soldier. Sure, pretty much every single media outlet has been trying to get him to comment on the revelation – but at least no one’s calling for Bruce’s arrest, anymore – or worse, his own. 

So he hasn’t changed his mind, since he shook the senator’s hand. He’s still unable to sleep easy, though. He knows it’s the right thing to do, somehow – but he’s not got to like it, completely. And he doesn’t think he can work with Steve, or Bucky, given what he’s about to do. 

The Vision enters the room first, phasing directly through the doors as they usually do, and taking a seat beside Tony.  
“Tin-can. How’s it going?” Tony says, though the casual humour of the statement is lost, with his flat and distracted delivery. The Vision laughs politely.  
“I could call you the same thing,” They point out, raising what Tony supposes is their equivalent of an eyebrow. They pause for a moment, before observing aloud, “You seem distracted,” 

Hearing JARVIS’ voice is soothing: he misses having JARVIS as his AI, but this is better, he tells himself; having the Vision around to interact with, and as a member of the Avengers, is useful. He still can’t help but miss JARVIS’ dry wit, though. He adds fiddling with Friday’s humour circuits – that’s their colloquial name, anyway – to the end of his huge to-do list. 

“Don’t worry about it,” He sighs, rubbing his brow, and continuing to psych himself up. 

When Natasha enters she nods to both of them briefly, and looks back to her tablet quickly, obviously organising the information she’s brought as she sits down in her usual spot.  
“Where’s Wanda?” Tony asks the Vision, finding it odd that she’s not present alongside them. They pause, for a second, drawing Natasha’s eye before they continue. 

“During the . . . Interim, last week, we knew that we would not be required as part of a team line-up. Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes had taken a week off, and Wanda expressed her desire once again to visit her homeland, and help with the relief efforts. I transported her to Sokovia, along with some supplies, and she is currently happy there. We enjoyed a small vacation period there, aiding Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes with the relief efforts. She says she will be back soon, but apologises for being unable to make the meeting,” They recount.  
“She could have warned us,” Tony comments, before feeling a little hypocritical – after all, he hasn’t discussed his plans with the rest of the team at all. He doesn’t let any trace of guilt show on his face.  
“Vision can pass this on. I’m sure they could replay the whole thing from their memory banks, for her,” Natasha points out; the Vision nods in agreement. Tony just hums, preoccupied. 

Steve, Sam and Bucky arrive as a group. They’re having an animated discussion about something, and they all look pretty happy – Sam looks impressed, Steve looks pleased, and even Bucky’s face shows a muted grin. 

“Honestly, man – that’s incredible. What else can it do?” Sam is saying, as they sit down. Bucky scratches the back of his head, looking down at his new prosthesis.  
“I – haven’t read the manual fully, yet,” He admits. Sam sniggers.  
“Tony, this – this is really great,” Steve says, smiling up at Tony, the anger and resentment between them before the delivery now forgotten.  
“Thank you,” Bucky says, looking briefly at Tony’s face, before averting his gaze down towards the prosthesis. He still can’t quite look Tony in the eye, after the press conference – he can trace the anxiety he’s felt about being recognised back to Tony, after all. But he’s still grateful. 

Tony considers Steve and Bucky with a wistful expression: they look better rested than when he saw them outside of their Avengers Tower apartment. As Sam touches the metal arm, Tony spots the area where the red star previously was: there’s a white star, now, on a dark blue circular background. It’s been painted on artistically – Tony would put money on Steve being the one to do so. He bites his lip, and he observes how happy they look – well-rested, and less angry with him, than before. He’s about to ruin that, obviously. 

He almost doesn’t say it. But then he thinks, again, that he has no choice. This is the way things have to be. He stands up. 

“I’m cancelling the meeting,” He says simply. 

They all look up at once, with varying expressions: mainly surprise, from Steve, Sam and Bucky; Natasha frowns, and the Vision looks curious. 

“Wait, what?” Sam asks, understandably confused.  
“You can’t cancel the meeting. It’s not your meeting,” Natasha points out wearily. This isn’t the first time Tony’s tried to move things around last minute, to suit him. She doesn’t understand, yet, what he really means.  
“Well I won’t be here for it, then. For personal reasons, I’ve decided to sever all communication with Sergeant Barnes, and any team of which he is a member,” Tony says, his speech pre-prepared. He clears his throat as he starts to walk out of the room.  
“Sever all communication?” Steve asks, shocked.  
“Tony!” Natasha reprimands, but he doesn’t stop walking. This needs to be a clean break – like pulling a band-aid off. They need to know that he won’t be on the team, if Bucky is. And he needs to distance himself from Bucky, and Steve (who will inevitably fall in with Bucky, whatever he does), before he collaborates any further with the senator. 

He’s out of the door before anyone can stop him – but that doesn’t mean no one comes after him. He keeps walking away, though he can hear quick steps behind him; he’s surprised when he feels a hand on his shoulder, turns around and sees Steve. 

“Tony, wait – what’s going on?” Steve asks, looking genuinely concerned for him – he doesn’t appear angry, or anything, to Tony’s surprise. He actually looks like he wants to understand, and help. The gesture of goodwill, in the form of Barnes’ arm, did wonders, as Tony knew it would. Tony steels himself, thinking about that.  
“I can’t associate with Barnes. I’m already in deep with T’Challa, and the conference last week, and the Ultron inquiry,” Tony explains quickly.  
“So don’t distance yourself from the team! We can help you, ” Steve implores, holding his hands out as he explains what, to him, seems simple.  
“Not the team – Barnes. You said yourself – you mentioned he’d been spotted, in your email updates. Identified on the street,” He points out. Steve frowns, but remains silent, so Tony continues: “I can’t have him on the team. Or – well, since you guys would rather associate with him than stick with me, I can’t be part of the team,” He finishes. 

Steve crosses his arms.  
“That’s what you think this is? A popularity contest?” Steve asks seriously. He sounds as if he can’t believe it. Tony hopes he won’t keep pressing the issue – he doesn’t want to give away what he’s about to do; he doesn’t want to be talked out of it.  
“Oh, it’s not?” Tony asks, locking eyes with Steve, feeling a little annoyed, now. “Funny. You all act like it is. Most of you have no worries about ganging up on me,”  
“We’re not . . . _Ganging up_ on you, we’re supporting Bucky – it doesn’t have to be a choice between the two of you. You two can still get along – he and Howard weren’t crazy about each other, at first, but-”  
“I’m not dad,” Tony points out, eyes narrowing. Steve realises that may not have been the best example to use, mentally kicking himself.  
“I wasn’t saying you are! I’m just saying, you might warm to him,”  
“Right. That seems likely,” Tony mutters sarcastically. 

Steve shakes his head, and rubs his face. Tony begins to turn away, but he tries again –  
“Look – he’s ready. He’s ready for active duty, and he’s proved it. You’ve really helped him with the arm – it’s _fantastic_ , Tony. He’s made up. You saw, didn’t you?” He pauses, but Tony says nothing. “Just try again to be civil with him – don’t exclude him. He’s done with being left out in the cold,” Steve says again.  
“And what about me? I’m the leader of this team – he’s a murderer, Steve. I don’t know why you still can’t get that into your head,” Tony says, taking a step closer.  
“For the last time, it _wasn’t him_ , you ass,” Steve says, frustrated.  
“Wasn’t it? Why can’t you understand – you’re always excusing him, and it’s hurting the team," Tony argues, raising his voice a little. "You know, Rogers, maybe this team would work a lot better if you thought with your brain, rather than your dick,” Tony hisses. 

Steve looks scandalised: he bristles, as Tony takes a step back, keeping eye contact. He clearly knows that what he just said was harsh, but it looks as if he doesn’t care. Everything is out in the open, now. So he walks away, and out of the door, feeling like he’s sufficiently cut off ties, enough to carry out his plan. He leaves Steve standing there, a few paces from the conference room door, and still partially in shock. 

His hands fall to his hips awkwardly, and he looks at the floor, for a few minutes: he feels angry, but he can’t express it; he wants to smash something, but he knows he shouldn’t, so he just pushes the feeling down. He can’t believe – he _cannot believe_ Tony would stoop, like that. He thought more of him than that. He’s reeling, and angry, in the knowledge that maybe, he was wrong. 

A few seconds later, Bucky peeks out of the conference room door: he looks concerned, as he looks out, and at Steve, who’s just standing there appearing to boil internally. He’s staring into nothingness; Bucky stops and thinks, for a second, about how it’s like looking into a mirror. On his bad days, anyway. All that pent-up anger, turning into motionless, silent apathy. 

“Steve?” He asks quietly. Steve looks up from the floor, and at Bucky. He gives him a small smile.  
“I’m okay,” He says, and Bucky purses his lips, because he knows it’s not true. Steve’s not okay. He didn’t hear what happened outside, due to the sound-proofing of the conference room for confidentiality purposes, but he was out of the room long enough to have talked to Tony for a little while. He doesn’t imagine it was a pleasant conversation, given that Tony is gone; given the state of Steve, now. 

He makes his way back into the room, and is confronted by a full set of expectant faces, looking concerned: Nat’s the one to ask, “What did he say?”  
“He’s not coming back. He’s leaving the team,” Steve says, but his words are a little stilted.  
“Because of Barnes?” Sam asks incredulously. “Did he say anything else?”

Steve sighs, and nods. “Lots. But he’s not coming back,” Steve says shortly, sounding final. “We can continue without him,”

It’s then that the Vision stands up. Everyone turns to them, as they start to speak:  
“Captain Rogers. I am afraid I cannot be part of a team divided. I swore to protect the Earth from the dangers that face it – I cannot be partisan and continue to do that. Therefore, I must not be part of this meeting,” They explain. Steve looks taken aback, for a few seconds; the rest of the team look to Steve. 

“. . . I understand. You don’t have to be part of this,” He says, nodding to the Vision, as if giving them permission to leave. He thinks that they probably feel a little conflicted, too, because Tony had a hand in creating them (though they were also created by Ultron, and Thor, mainly).  
“Understand that I am not looking to side with Mr. Stark, either. I would like to remain neutral. If you require my assistance with missions, you can contact me to help you. I do not intend to burn any bridges, so to speak,” They explain further.  
“Thank you,” Steve says, genuinely meaning it – he doesn’t mind a conscientious objector. He just wishes he knew how it came to _sides_ this quickly; how a conflict arose, over something as positive as regaining someone he truly loves. 

Well. Positive for _him_ , anyway. 

The Vision takes their leave, striding out of the door without opening it. Steve rubs his face, yet again, and runs his hands through his hair, making it a little wilder than it was already.  
“Are you alright to continue with the meeting?” Natasha asks, looking genuinely unsure, for one of the first times Steve’s seen, when he opens his eyes up.  
“Yeah. Yes – let’s put this behind us. We’ve got work to do,” Steve says. He steps forward to sit down – and is suddenly aware that he’s been drawing strength from Bucky standing at his shoulder, an almost tangible presence at his side, through his time since the argument. As he sits, Bucky sits down beside him silently, too. 

“Okay,” She says, though she doesn’t sound entirely certain. But she schools her expression, pulls out a bunch of documents, and begins her debrief to an audience of three troubled faces.


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky holds the door open for Steve, who sifts through a bunch of papers given to him by Natasha during the course of the debrief. He seems distracted, not really looking up from the papers, as he walks in and to the coffee table. 

“You want a coffee?” Bucky asks, wondering why he feels so nervous. He decides it’s probably because he knows he’s going to have to bring up what happened with Tony and Steve, earlier; he feels as if he’s at the root of the problems they’re experiencing, and really, he’s the reason Tony left – Tony, who’s often regarded as the leader of the Avengers. Tony, who’s an asshole, sure, but he needs the Avengers’ help - Bucky feels guilty for removing that support system, however inadvertently. 

Steve hums, so Bucky makes takes a few minutes to make coffee for the two of them. He stands in the kitchen, watching it brew, and psyches himself up for talking to Steve. He realises that in the past, before the war, he’d probably be really good at this. As of now, he’s usually the one Steve has to talk to, not the other way round. It’s a strange position to be in, undoubtedly, but he thinks to himself that really, he’s helping repay his debt to Steve (the one that Steve insists doesn’t exist). 

He pours the drinks, staring down into the blackness of them; staring at how the steam creates condensation on his very faintly glowing metal limb. He frowns at it, unhappy in the knowledge that the man who made it for him still hates him. It certainly didn’t feel like it, minutes before he declared that he was leaving the team. 

He adds milk to his drink, and sugar to Steve's, and walks through to the lounge holding both drinks in his metal hand, to avoid being burned. Steve is scowling down at the documents, his eyes flitting between papers and paragraphs, obviously not taking it in, that much. He doesn’t even look up, until Bucky sets his drink down, besids the papers. 

“Thanks,” He mumbles. 

Bucky takes out his journal from the draw it stays in within the coffee table, and the pen he keeps with it: he’s been writing in it more briefly, over the last few weeks, relying on it less between regularly scheduled therapy sessions. He writes what happened that day; any negative thoughts, or episodes, so he remembers to bring them up with Dr. Franklin. 

But this time he’s a lot more focussed – the entry is only short. It’s to the point, though. 

_Stark left today. I think it’s about me. I don’t know why, when he just gave me the arm. It doesn’t add up._

Bucky sets the pen down; puts the journal away quietly. He takes a breath.  
“Hey,” He says, tapping Steve on the arm lightly, so he looks up, eyes wide and wondering what’s wrong. But Bucky sits back, silent for a moment, just maintaining eye contact; eventually, he says,  
“What happened, back there?” 

They both know he’s talking about Tony. Steve looks back down at the papers, not moving for a minute; finally, he sighs, and leans forward on his elbows. His hands clasp together, and he stares down at them.  
“He’s leaving the team,” Steve says simply, though his voice betrays what Bucky already knows – there’s more to it than that.  
“I know. But you were real cut up, Steve,” Bucky points out. Steve smiles bitterly. 

Bucky pauses, before adding, “You don’t have to tell me. You can tell your therapist,” He points out. Steve shakes his head very slightly.  
“. . . No. You should know – he said it was like a popularity contest – all this stupid . . . All this stuff about the team choosing between us, and him,” Steve explains.  
“But we’re on the same side,” Bucky says slowly. Steve shakes his head, and looks up at Bucky’s confused face.  
“Not to him. He said we were causing a split, in the group – and he didn’t wanna be involved with you, and by association, me. I couldn’t convince him you’re on our side, that you’re – that you’ve done good, and you’re ready to do more,” Steve confesses.  
“It’s not down to you. I have to convince them with my actions,” Bucky points out.  
“No, you don’t. They trust me, they should trust you – they’ve seen you do good, they all trust you, except him. You don’t need to prove anything,” Steve says, and he sounds angry again – not at Bucky, but at Tony. And at himself, too, for being unable to talk him around. 

“So you couldn’t argue Tony around. I don’t get the impression he’s the kind of guy who can be talked around about anything,” Bucky says quietly. “You’re both stubborn,” He adds, with a sad smile.  
“I’m not the one who wouldn’t get out of a burning building just to watch someone take a running jump,” Steve reminds him, pointing at Bucky. Bucky frowns, looking down at the floor, trying to access the memory desperately for a few seconds – it’s around 20 seconds before he realises what Steve means. 

“. . . The Hydra facility. I wasn’t gonna leave you to burn. Not after you came to get me,” Bucky shrugs. Steve smiles, both at his words, and the fact Bucky remembered. He doesn’t always, even now. Steve thinks that the fact his brain is being allowed to heal, after so long being wiped clean of memories and scarred over and over, is helping him access things he’s reminded of, in one way or another. 

Steve looks down at the papers, his smile fading. Bucky shifts, sitting forward a little. He can still tell something is off, with Steve.  
“. . . Something else?” He asks. Steve licks his lips, but doesn’t speak, for a few seconds. He doesn’t know how to say it, without making Bucky feel more guilty. He guesses that’s why Tony said it.  
“He brought us into it. Our relationship,” Steve says.  
“What?” Bucky asks, looking taken aback.  
“Yeah – I think his words were . . . I don’t know. He said I needed to think about you objectively, rather than . . . _Thinking with my dick_ ,” Steve says, sounding disgusted. 

To his surprise, Bucky laughs. He looks up, surprised.  
“What?” Steve asks.  
“. . . I know I’m a good-lookin’ guy, Steve, but – well, what with all the scars and everything – I’m not worth betraying your country for,” Bucky says, a note of humour in his voice. Steve frowns, at the comment about scars, but counters –  
“I – just don’t want either of us to be seen as compromised,” Steve says, shaking his head, with pursed lips.  
“We’re not. Nothing’s changed. If you’re happy, he should be happy for you,” Bucky says. “. . . But I don’t want to make you do anything you don't think is right,” He adds, looking away. Steve hums, but doesn’t say anything – so he adds, slightly more obviously, “. . . We can stop. We can separate, if you want him to come back. If you’re compromised and it’s not good for the team then we can stop,” 

Steve pauses for a second, a doubtful expression on his face for a moment – then, he reaches across to Bucky, going for his hand, but stopping short of contact. Bucky gets the message, and takes his hand in his own. Steve squeezes his hand, and says,  
“No. That jackass can do what he wants. It doesn’t matter – I . . . Feel like I just got you back. I don’t want to stop doing what we’re doing. You’re worth it,” Steve tells Bucky, who looks thoughtfully down at their hands. “You’re worth all of it. Everything,” Steve adds, sounding vehemently sure. Bucky looks up and into his eyes, and feels heat creep up his neck, and into his cheeks. 

He wants to ask if Steve is sure. He wants to tell him to reconsider. But he pushes those urges down, and leans forward and across their drinks to kiss Steve. It’s slow, and sweet – and it’s the only answer Bucky really needs, regarding whether or not Steve is _sure_. He’d do anything for Steve, including leaving him, if he needed that – even if it meant tearing himself apart, and away from his entire support network, though he knows that’s an awful thing to even consider – but he knows that Steve won’t ask him to do that. He wouldn’t. 

As Bucky pulls away slightly, Steve brings up a hand to the back of his neck, scratching his scalp gently; from close up, Steve’s face is a little blurry, but Bucky can still see him frown.  
“You really thing your scars make you . . . Y’know,”  
“Ugly as hell? Yeah. Looks like they tried to vivisect me,” Bucky says honestly. 

Steve’s grip on his hair tightens a little. Bucky stifles a gasp he doesn’t quite understand. Maybe it happens because Steve is holding him tight, like he’ll never let anyone take him away and do anything like that, ever again, if he can help it. 

“You’re not ugly. Just ugly things happened to you,” Steve reasons. Bucky kisses him again.  
“Lucky I’ve got you to counter them, then, isn’t it?” Bucky says, with a smile.  
“You are a sweet-talker, though, aren’t you?” Steve asks, with a smirk. Bucky just shrugs. 

Steve tucks a few wild strands of hair behind Bucky’s ear, and leans back with a happy sigh. Bucky thinks he’s done good, today – just by talking out what happened, he’s helped reduce Steve’s anger at his supposed _failure_ to talk Tony around. Steve can’t afford to hate himself. There’s nothing to hate, the way Bucky sees it. Not even the stubbornness. 

“Did you have a look at these?” Steve asks, taking a sip of his coffee; Bucky mirrors him, drinking his own. Bucky looks at the documents he’s skimming through, and shakes his head.  
“Testimonies. From the people we saved. Apparently they’re mostly healthy – most of them weren’t aware that AIM were up to anything illegal. They signed up for a course of anti-depressants, usually – AIM removed them from their families, and did _this_ to them,” Steve says, spreading out two papers, showing crime scene photographs taken by SHIELD agents during the raids. 

“They wanted to get better,” Bucky says, shaking his head, as he stares down at a photograph of a sleep-slack, nameless face, bloodless in an extended sleep. Steve covers the pictures again as much as possible, not standing to look at them. To take advantage of those wanting to get help; to do good . . . It’s _evil_ , to him. 

Steve keeps sifting through the documents, reading them quietly, while Bucky stares idly out of the window, comfortable in the silence, for a few moments. That is, until Steve sets his coffee cup down with a start. Bucky sharply looks back at him. He’s holding a photograph, and a sheet of paper containing a statement. 

“. . . Oh my god,” He mutters. He looks up at Bucky, his expression one of disbelief, though Bucky doesn’t know what about.  
“What? What is it?” Bucky asks urgently, not liking the uncertainty.  
“Look at this woman,” Steve says, handing Bucky the picture – Bucky recognises her immediately, as the woman whose table he settled next to, during his largely senseless time in the freezer, at the AIM facility; the one whose legs were amputated, below the knees. He can see from the picture that she’s really young – she’s definitely under 25.  
“Who does she look like?” Steve asks. Bucky sighs – she does look familiar.  
“She’s Japanese, Steve,” Bucky mentions. Steve rolls his eyes.  
“Yeah, but – who does she _look_ like,” He says, pointing at her lips; her hair, which is dark. 

Bucky catches on, eventually. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t want to be wrong. Steve hands him the other document he was holding. It’s a statement, from the soldier. She’s a Sergeant, Bucky sees – no, scratch that . . . She’s a _Sergeant Barnes_.

He looks up with wide eyes at Steve, who’s smiling. He looks back down, eyes frantically skipping across the page, and taking in the detail as quickly as possible – apparently, she was involved in a roadside bomb blast during one of her tours. She lost her legs to an IED, and didn’t have a huge support system to help her, after the accident – she was born in-

“ _Jersey_? – I don’t know, Steve,” Bucky says doubtfully. Steve rolls his eyes, again.  
“Seriously, Bucky. They moved away from there, anyway. She's listed as living in Kansas,” He says. “Did you ever look up what happened to your family?” 

Bucky pauses – because he’s wondered about it, but he’s always just assumed they were all gone.  
“. . . No. I thought they were all dead,” He replies honestly. “-is there a contact number?” He asks a few seconds later, curiosity piqued.  
“No – but I don’t think it would do any harm to at least look up what your sisters did, after you were – gone,” Steve says, choosing his words carefully. “I mean – I don’t know how they would have passed on the name, except if they weren’t married – but it’s possible, right?” 

Bucky sits back, and stares at the picture, some more. The longer he stares, the weirder is gets. He wonders what he is to this woman – to this _Sergeant_ , who’s earned her way up to that rank, despite her age. What more is he – what more _can he be_ , to her, other than a random guy, who happened to help get her out of that awful place? 

“. . . Stranger things have happened,” He comments. After all – it’s not weird that she exists, if she’s related to him; the weird thing is that he, a distant and frankly ancient relative of hers, is around to be her contemporary. 

He’s the strange thing, here. But even so – he feels oddly bittersweet, knowing that life went on without him, and he was never around to see what became of his family. Until now. 

He finishes his coffee, and gets his computer. 

-

Meanwhile, in his basement lab, Tony Stark sifts through hours of footage. 

He’s been on the phone with Senator Zemo for a couple of hours, drafting a resignation statement that sounds genuine, and spontaneous, and in no way pre-meditated, so as not to implicate himself in the information he’s about to anonymously leak to the Associated Press. 

He asked if this was worth it, one or two times; each time, he’s been talked round, and convinced yet again, that this is the best course of action. Really, he can see no other way out of his situation; no other way to bring the team together again, other than for them to salvage what’s left, after what he’s going to do. 

“Stop,” He says, winding through the footage with hand gestures, and bringing them to an abrupt halt with a still hand. The elevator is disabled, temporarily, to this level of the base; he’s not going to be interrupted. This isn’t the only night he’s spent carefully selecting the right combination of footage and information taken from both SHIELD’s information dump, and from Senator Zemo’s classified information. He doesn’t know where he got the extra information from, but it’s pretty damning, in terms of discrediting Barnes as being unsafe to serve: there are photographs, and documents with detailed accounts of the Winter Soldier going guano on his previous handlers, as well as having panic attacks; the mental breaks he went through during his conditioning. Zemo must have friends in low places – hell, Tony knows as much, from the _darker shades_ comment. Tony doesn’t really care where it came from, only that it all holds water, and it looks _bad_. 

But it's not as bad, to a huge section of the population, as what he’s looking at right now: he’s pulled up footage from the security camera he had installed in Steve and Bucky’s kitchen, as a matter of procedure. He watches the footage at half speed, as Bucky kisses Steve on the cheek. He winds it back – “Cut – cut it off there. Great,” He says, beckoning, and editing the clip down. It’s not the first he’s salvaged: he’s also got footage from their bedroom, though the camera was supposedly off. Thankfully, he didn’t have to sit through anything _not safe for work_ , but there’s definitely some heavy petting. He should have figured Barnes was into hair-pulling. 

He lets his hands drop to his sides, and observes the holographic wall of footage he’s compiled: little snippets, here and there, of Steve and Bucky together – enough to incriminate Steve, and to let the public know that he’s been _associating_ with the Winter Soldier. The order that the information is released is crucial; the content, and how long the leaks continue on for, is essential, too. Luckily, he’s had some time to plan this. He’s taken more of a backseat with the Ultron inquiry, as well as burning the candle at both ends, of late; he intends to get more involved in placating T’Challa, and with bringing the inquiry to a close, once all of this has calmed down. He imagines it will all be put on hold, at least for a little while, during the upcoming Avengers-centric scandal he’s about to cause. 

_Speaking of which_. He sighs, and steels himself, before requesting:  
“Alright, Friday. Bring it – I want emails. Texts, and personal stuff. I want it from all the Avengers’ devices you can get hold of,”  
“Sir, that violates privacy protocols that you yourself put in place for confidentiality purposes. Accessing personal information would be a violation of the Avengers’ contracts, which agree that one Avenger will not hack into or share the personal information of another Av-”  
“Okay, one – Barnes isn’t an Avenger, so you can go ahead and hack him straight off,” Tony argues.  
“Officially, he’s a shadow member of the roster, which means he is an unofficial Avenger,”  
“Or, _not an Avenger_ ,” Tony bites back. Friday pauses, so he continues – “And anyway. I’m not an Avenger, either. Which means they’re using my privately-owned devices of their own free will, to discuss non-work, non-business matters. This is a matter of national security, and I require those files. It’s not a violation, if I’m not an Avenger,” 

Friday doesn’t vocalise, just bringing up six Avengers' files in front on Tony’s face, pushing the cut footage of Steve and Bucky out of the way, for now – Steve’s file, Bucky’s file, Sam’s file, Natasha’s file, The Vision’s file, and Wanda’s file.  
“Whoa, hey – no reason to leak anything about the Vision. I do not want the shit-storm that would happen if anyone else found out I let them carry an infinity gem around in their forehead, instead of throwing it into the sun, or something,” Tony tells Friday. Obligingly, the AI dissolves the file, leaving the other Avengers’ portraits staring back at him. 

“Alright. Make it look like a full-scale hack – so it’s not too targeted on Barnes. Makes it more believable – could be anyone. And for God’s sake, don’t leave a trace. Clean up on your way out,” Tony tells the AI.  
“. . . Affirmative, Sir,” Friday says, and for a second, he swears that the woman’s voice he chose for her sounds _guilty_. He shakes himself, telling himself he’s been around the Vision too much – not every AI is sentient, and feeling, with a moral compass. Not every AI is _neutral good_ , or whatever.

“I want the first things dumped on the net at 3am, New York time. To my exact specifications,” He says, bringing them up with a beckoning version – the exact websites he intends to leak the information to, and who they’ll be likely to share it with, and where it will end up, from there; when it will be verified, and when it will be on the major news channels. He has the timeline worked out to a tee. 

He just wishes, despite the reassurances from the Senator which help him feel more secure and morally superior, that he could guarantee that everything would end up exactly as he wanted. He wishes there were more iron-clad outcomes, here. 

But as he makes his way to his bed, intending to sleep beside Pepper for the first time in weeks (plausible deniability – if he’s sleeping, with company, he won’t be suspected of the leak right away), he knows one thing – Barnes isn’t getting out of this scot-free, like he has everything else. The sooner Steve realises he can’t be trusted, the better. It’s for the greater good, really. 

He’ll get the team back together. With Zemo’s backing, he can return it to its former glory, with him as its leader, once more. 

-

Steve wakes up in the night, completely still and calm: his eyes open, and he’s not even aware that he’s awake, for a blissful few seconds. He can’t tell where his body ends, and Bucky’s begins: after a few seconds, his mind puts the pieces together, though it’s half still submerged in dreamless sleep. Bucky’s head is on his chest, his right arm trapped between them, and the metal arm resting across his abdomen; one of his legs is between Steve’s, slotted together like a pair of puzzle pieces. 

Bucky spent a lot of time, yesterday, drafting an email: after an extensive amount of research, he was able to locate the same Sergeant Barnes he found and rescued from the AIM facility, on social media. She hasn’t posted much, of late; her family had a couple of pages, asking for her safe return, begging that anyone with information about her come forward. They didn’t connect her disappearance to her signing up for drug trials, to combat her PTSD, though they did mention her mental health issues, and her physical disabilities. Anything they could, for ease of recognition, he’d supposed. 

All the pages were rejoicing, because she’s come home safe. Her parents had retired – moved away from their family home – but they were still relieved, yet secretive, about the circumstances of her return. SHIELD, it’s clear, made them agree to some sort of non-disclosure. Maybe they didn’t tell them anything at all. Just that their daughter was okay. 

But Bucky was interested in her personal page: he felt stupid, really, in the midst of her family and friends sending her messages of happiness, and of hope, to be contacting her. He asked Steve, so many times, if he was doing the right thing. Steve just told him to do what felt right – he knows Bucky felt something, when he realised he and the other Sergeant Barnes might be related, so he gave him gentle encouragement. 

It’s difficult to explain who he is – after all, he’s only shared his identity with some SHIELD staff, and with the other Avengers. SHIELD told him not to speak to others about it, that he wasn’t close to (knowing he had no one but Steve, and Sam, and Natasha). But in the end, he reckoned that Sergeant Barnes is family, so he decided to just tell the truth. 

Steve can almost reproduce the message from memory, he read through so many drafts, for Bucky’s sake: this kind of thing only happens once, he knows, and he was happy to, anyway. Bucky’s family were like his family – at dinner times and on hot weekends, on Halloween and Christmas, on any occasion Bucky could contrive to invite him in, and Bucky’s Ma would roll her eyes but smile and not be mad at all – they were probably one of the reasons he survived to fight his way into the war effort, at all. He feels bittersweet, about the whole thing, knowing that Bucky’s family continued without them; thinking they’d died. So he can’t imagine how intensely Bucky feels, about this whole thing. 

He started with her name. It said ‘Rikki’ in the file, which is a little odd to both of them, but then again so are a lot of things. Then came his own name – James Buchanan Barnes, a relative of hers, he thinks. He knows her father’s name – he’s a Barnes, too – and he checked birth records, and found that, yes, he was Rebecca’s child, though Bucky’s not sure how he ended up taking her name. It’s just one of those things, he guesses. 

He said that made him her great uncle. He doesn’t know if she wants anything to do with him, and he can’t tell her much, but he wants to say that he’s glad he was able to help her. He says he’s sorry for what she’s been through, and he can understand, more than a little. He hopes things get better, for her. He wants the best for her. 

It wasn’t a long message: he overthought it, Steve thinks, as he gazes blearily down at Bucky’s head, bobbing up and down with the movement of his own breathing. Bucky never used to get this close, to sleep; Steve’s glad he does, now. He prefers being warm, during sleep – the new arm helps, some, being more like body temperature. The blue glowing is turned down, in the night - to match Bucky’s body clock, apparently. _Tony Stark sure knows how to show off_ , Steve thinks – but he knows that at least it’s for good, this time. 

He realises that he’s woken for a reason, after a few long seconds, thinking about the minutes preceding sleep, and the position of his and Bucky’s bodies, limbs entwined: he realises there’s a small light beside him, that’s definitely not coming from Bucky’s arm. He turns his head, and sees his phone emitting the light: that second, it starts vibrating loudly. _That must be what woke him up_. Frowning, he twists his body slowly, not wanting to wake Bucky, to grab it. 

The first thing he sees is a text from Natasha: he looks at the time, sees that it’s coming up to 3 am, and wonders whether or not she ever sleeps. He opens the text, and reads it with blurry eyes: _wake up. Something big._

He sighs, and replies, _what?_

Within seconds, she texts back: _Avengers hack.TWS ID leaked. Associated Press have details. TWS not safe._

Steve balks: he feels the blood drain from his face, the stress hormones that kick in much faster, and much stronger, for him, spreading from his head throughout his body, emanating from his spine and setting all of his nerves on fire with nauseating fear. 

“. . . Fuck,” He can’t help but breathe, feeling that he’s stiff as a board, all of a sudden; rigid with fear, and with a sick regret; the feeling, already, that this is somehow his fault.

Natasha confirmed it: Bucky isn’t safe, now. The public will wake up to the news that the Winter Soldier is James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes, who is still at large. And that, he knows, simply cannot end well. 

He lies completely still, paralysed from acting, for once in his life: this isn’t a grenade, or a gunshot, or anything he can hope to make a strategic retreat from – or, more likely for him, fight head-on – this is something completely out of his control, and it’s going to completely vilify his best friend, a _war hero_ who has suffered endlessly. 

He wishes they could just leave him alone. He’d take everything that he can see happening to Bucky, if it would spare him. 

But he can’t. He stares down at Bucky’s head, with his hair long and wild, yet soft against his bare skin, and thinks that they can never know what went on in that head; to this body. They’ll never know how little he deserves what they might want for him; what they might do to him. 

He lies completely still, and stares at the words _TWS not safe._

-

All in all, Steve stared at the message for an entire hour, before he made his move. He replied to the message, saying he’d liaise with Natasha as soon as he was ready, to discuss damage control. Then, he had to rouse Bucky. 

It was a difficult process. Bucky likes sleep, when he’s with Steve: the warmth of him staves of the nightmares, he's said in the past. It’s hard to dream about the freezer, and the operating table, he's pointed out, when you’re occupying space with a small oven. 

But when Steve murmured what had happened to him, he’d tensed up, clinging tightly to Steve: he stared ahead, unseeing, at the wall, until Steve bodily shook him. It took another hour to bring him around, and pull some clothes on. Bucky hardly said a word the entire time. 

Steve didn’t show him the message. He doesn’t know, right now, if Bucky can handle knowing that Natasha classes him as not being safe. It might be othering, to him, to see himself referred to as _TWS_ in this context. Steve doesn’t want him to feel as if everything’s being snatched out from under him; his peace of mind, and recovery, derailed. 

They show up at the conference room all the same: by the time they get there, it’s 5 am, and both of them are extremely tired – they don’t require as much sleep as the others, but the exhaustive nature of Bucky’s episodes, and the fact Steve has been awake most of the night worrying, has done a number on them both. 

“Natasha,” Steve says immediately, seeing her sitting at the head of the table, scowling down at a laptop. She glances up, and at him – her eyes slide over Bucky, concerned, before she shares a look with Sam. He’s standing beside her, looking down at the screen, any trace of humour or happiness completely gone from his face. He looks very worried – more so than Steve has seen, since the day the helicarriers came down. 

“What’s going on?” Steve prompts, their looks doing nothing to help with his anxiety. 

There’s a knock on the door: they all turn as Maria enters the room, a laptop under her arm, and her expression business-like and serious, as if they’re just about to enter a warzone.  
“You wanted my help?” She says, directing her attention to Natasha.  
“Come in. Sit down. We’re going to need you to handle this situation,” Natasha says, indicating the seat next to her. Sam pulls out the chair, and Maria takes it quickly, opening up her laptop too.  
“Situation?” Steve asks, slightly frustrated. Natasha takes a breath. 

“Steve, they know – almost everything. There’s been a hack of everyone’s devices – every Avenger – it’s an onslaught. At the same time, the press got ahold of some shield cables with data files, photographs – things we knew about already, but someone – we don’t know who – has connected them with the Winter Soldier. And – presumably the same person, has linked them with brand new data. Amongst other things – most importantly, they know the Winter Soldier is Bucky,” 

Steve looks back at Bucky, but he’s just staring avidly at Natasha, as if she hasn’t told them anything yet. He needs more information to process. He has to think his way out of this tight spot, somehow. 

“They know Bucky’s alive?” Steve asks, cautiously – he thinks he might not understand the full scale of the situation, yet. His mind is going too fast to concentrate. All he knows is that it’s bad. 

Natasha glances at Sam, who gently says, “. . . They know he’s alive. And they know he’s been working with us . . . Staying with you,” 

Steve shuts his mouth – he glances back at Bucky, again, but he’s completely still, and silent. He doesn’t know how to react. But Steve is acutely aware that this is one of Bucky’s worst fears realised – he’s always thought he’s going to hurt Steve, in one way or another; now, because of him, the media might well do it for him. If this blows up in Steve’s face, Bucky’s going to blame himself. He’s sometimes said he deserves anything that happens to him – despite trying to tell himself that he doesn’t, and listening to his therapist’s warnings about telling himself that he deserves bad things – but he’s _always_ said he would rather he get hurt, than Steve. 

He can’t bear the thought of hurting Steve, again. One way, or another. 

Steve sets his jaw. “What do we do?” He asks, determined to make this right.  
“Natasha called me in to help with this,” Maria explains, quickly taking charge. “I’ve already gotten calls from basically every major news outlet, wanting a comment – I haven’t put anything out, yet,” She assures him.  
“We think it would be best for you to arrange an interview, Steve. Something on your own terms. You’ve spoken to the press before,” Natasha points out.  
“Yeah – I managed to piss people off by telling them to get their kids vaccinated,” Steve recalls, doubting himself.  
“You were good. You brought in your childhood – people respect that. You’re a war hero, and you’re an _avenger_. You can do this,” Sam points out.  
“For obvious reasons, we want you to stay hidden from the press, if possible,” Natasha tells Bucky, looking him directly in the eye, in a way that people sometimes avoid, especially if he looks shaken. He appreciates it, though. He likes to know when he’s being spoken to, directly, when there’s a lot going on all around him. It’s all just noise, amongst his silent, internal panic. 

“. . . Some people have called for Sergeant Barnes’ arrest,” Maria informs them quietly. Steve looks stricken; outraged.  
“What? How – why?”  
“They have footage of him destroying Hydra bases. They’re saying those places were _government property_ ,” Natasha says bitterly.  
“Yeah well technically so is my foot, I’m still gonna use it to kick their asses,” Steve mutters angrily.  
“Alright, easy. They don’t know the full story – they don’t know what happened to you, Bucky,” Sam says to him, looking up from his phone, which is on the CNN website. “At least these guys aren’t speculating right now. They just have the facts published,” 

He shows Maria his phone, and she skims the article, and nods.  
“CNN could be good. We’ve had enquiries from them. Do you think you can be ready by this evening, Steve?” She asks, staring at him analytically.  
“. . . I can explain to them what happened to Bucky,” Steve says, trying to have confidence in his words.  
“They might not understand why SHIELD is okay with having him around. They don’t realise that he has value, strategically, as well as being innocent due to . . . _Temporary insanity_ , technically. It might be a good time to bring up the AIM base,” Maria explains. 

Steve glances back at Bucky: his arms are down by his side, and he’s just staring down at the ground. Maria turns to Natasha, and they begin talking about how to approach CNN – Sam watches worriedly, as Steve asks Bucky, “Are you okay?” 

Bucky doesn’t react. 

“Bucky,” He says again. Finally, Bucky’s eyes slide upwards, though his head doesn’t change position; he looks at Steve’s hands. So, Steve signs, _are you okay?_  
Bucky just shakes his head. 

_Do you want to see Franklin?_

Bucky nods. 

Steve turns to Natasha and Maria.  
“Excuse me, I just – we have to sort something out. I’ll be back to prep for the interview,” Steve says. They nod without looking up, both immersed in handling the shit-storm that the leaks have landed them in the midst of. 

Steve shows Bucky his hand as plainly as he can, placing it in his line of sight, before reaching down to take Bucky’s right hand. He doesn’t think he’s fully monitoring the left one, right now – he doesn’t have the mental wherewithal to make sure he grips just the right amount, utilising fine motor skills, to make sure he can hold Steve’s hand and not crush it. 

He leads him out of the room, to make a call to Bucky’s therapist. He’s better equipped to deal with the situation – especially since Steve, apparently, now has to take a trip to the city. He has to deal with the press, and not let this harm Bucky (or, as Natasha and Maria have pointed out, himself). 

He can do this, he thinks, gripping tightly to Bucky’s hand. As Bucky’s hand squeezes his a little tighter, he thinks that he _must_ do it – for Bucky, and the others.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and especially to those of you who left comments and stuff about what you liked, here and on twitter - I don't mind if you don't, but it's nice to read :^) 
> 
> Anyway. You guys are the literal best, oh my god. Cheers!!

Steve fidgets in the chair he’s been assigned to. Maria told him not to – not while they’re on air, anyway – because it makes him look shifty, as if he’s got something to hide. So he’s getting it out of his system now. 

The whole day has been an intensive lesson on what not to say: Maria says she has every confidence in him, that he’ll do well, but he reckons she probably privately has her doubts. The vaccination interview was, after all, not his shining moment of tact. Usually he’s polite, but when he’s riled, he knows he can lose it a little. So, mainly, she’s helped him know how to avoid that, as best she can. 

He’s been revising Bucky’s story: sure, he’s known the short version for around a year, now, but there are some extra details Bucky’s shared with him and no one else, that help fill in gaps, and give a better idea of the big picture. He’s been liaising with Bucky all day, too, via text, about what he shouldn’t say – in between therapy sessions, and in breaks, Bucky has provided him with short answers. Steve’s just glad he’s responsive, now. He hopes he won’t watch, anyway. 

Natasha is hovering around him, setting up equipment: some people from the network came around to the tower, to set up what’s necessary for a live interview via video link, but she knows the Tower’s specs maybe as well as Tony, by this point, so she’s been doing the lion’s share of the technical work. Steve thinks she’s trying to distract herself – after all, it was her personal messages, too, that were leaked. She’s an extremely private person, so he doubts all of her messages were on her Avengers-business phone, but it’s still a blow to her. He’s afraid she might have even less trust in people, now, than before. 

Additionally, Natasha got him a smart shirt to wear; she applied some make-up to his face - and he doesn’t know how Bucky stands it. He doesn’t really like having make-up applied – _maybe it’s different when it’s eye make up? Or when you do it for yourself?_ – but Natasha insisted. He has to look well-rested, as if he’s not lost any sleep, and he’s done nothing wrong. It makes sense. Steve doesn’t have to enjoy it though. 

It’s minutes until he gets to fight his and Bucky’s – and the other Avengers’ – corner, on live TV. And that’s exactly what he’ll do: fight, like he would on a battlefield. He’s not letting anyone watch this without going away knowing _exactly_ what the score is. He should try not to seem overly confrontational, according to Maria – but he knows how the media works, from the coverage he’s seen, over the last four years. If he doesn’t act quickly, he might not get to control this story _at all_. Not that they currently have any control, anyway. 

“Two minutes. You ready man?” Sam asks, pinning up some cards in Steve’s eye line, beside the camera he’ll be looking at. To one side they’ve already tuned into the TV channel he’ll be on, so they can all see how he’s coming across. It’s a little rough and ready, as interview set-ups go, but they’ve had barely any time, between flying down to the city from the base, and the extensive preparation. They couldn't broadcast from their secret base, for fear that it would be traced. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Steve says, with a wistful smile. “I promise you – I’ll do my best, Sam,” He says. Sam smiles back sadly, because Steve’s words sound like an apology. They don’t know who’s behind this, but Steve still feels like he has to shoulder the burden. It hasn’t been easy on any of them – what with the locations of Natasha’s safe-houses being leaked, and Sam’s Mom’s home address, too – but they’re doing all they can. SHIELD agents have been posted to protect Sam’s Mom, and Natasha has already privately put her houses on the market, looking to buy some more, and clean out the existing ones, when she gets the chance. 

“That’s all we can ask. Remember – this is on them. Not you,” Sam reminds him. Steve nods, but knows that not everyone will see it that way. His performance means a lot. 

“Alright, everyone. Clear the area,” Maria says, clapping her hands, sending tech personnel scattering. Natasha gives the count down, and the lights drop, and become soft and flattering, all aimed on Steve. 

“. . . In a world exclusive, we have Steve Rogers, otherwise known as Captain America, with us via video link, live from the Avengers Tower. Captain Rogers, it’s great to have you with us,” The anchor’s voice comes through to his earpiece.  
“It’s good to be with you, Ms. McLaren,” Steve replies, with a smile he forces himself to produce. Luckily, people can rarely tell when he’s faking it, these days. He’s had a lot of practise.  
“Great. Now, Steve – is it alright if we call you that?” She asks, and he nods. “Steve. The questions everyone wants answered, in the midst of all the . . . Just _awful_ hacking that’s taken place today, are about the Winter Soldier. His identity was officially released today – can you confirm or deny what was leaked?” She asks eagerly. Steve takes a breath.  
“I can confirm that the Winter Soldier is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, of the 107th Infantry. A war hero, and my best friend since childhood,” Steve tells her, straightening up a bit.  
“And your best friend, still? It’s common knowledge – we’ve even got footage surviving from the tanked Project Insight helicarriers, confirming it – that the Winter Soldier tried to kill you. He almost succeeded,” She points out.  
“Yes, he’s still my best friend,” Steve repeats.  
“How do you forgive that of him? – We all know you’re a Christian man, but this – is surely a bridge too far, even for Captain America?”  
“First of all – yes, I believe in God, but I’d rather you thought of me as doing good because it’s the right thing to do, rather than on God’s behalf, or because I’m afraid of him,” Steve says – and catches Maria shaking her head and waving her hands in his eyeline, indicating that he should move away from the _God topic_. Steve realises that’s probably a good idea. 

“. . . But the thing is, it wasn’t Bucky’s – uh, Sergeant Barnes’ – idea to hurt me. The truth of the matter is that he was under the control of a terrorist organisation we're been fighting since the war, known as Hydra. You have to understand, these people are Nazis, and they carry out some of the most barbaric experiments the world has ever seen, wherever they’re active,”  
“You’re saying Nazis made him do it?” The anchor asks incredulously.  
“It sounds far-fetched. But if you look in the files, it’s all there,” Steve takes a deep breath, and steels himself, before recounting, “James – _Bucky_ was part of a mission to capture a Nazi scientist in the closing days of the war. We thought he was killed on that mission – we all mourned him. But he survived, and was captured, and subsequently tortured into submission by Hydra. He lost his arm in the accident we thought claimed his life – but they still . . . _Saw fit_ to condition and brainwash him into being their assassin. They didn’t count on me ever meeting him again,”  
“So him attacking you was an act of revenge, for leaving him behind?” The anchor asks.  
“I – no, that’s not right at all. He couldn’t recognise me. Hell, he didn’t even know his own name – not until I put my life on the line, to remind him who he was. Eventually, he remembered. He’s been recovering ever since,” Steve recounts.  
“So you’re saying it wasn’t his decision to hurt you?” She asks, sounding more sure, this time.  
“Yes. I’m saying that the first choice he made when he was free from their control, after over 70 decades as, effectively, a _puppet_ , was to save my life. I would have drowned in the Potomac, the day the helicarriers came down, if not for him. The Winter Soldier – _Bucky_ is still a war hero, and one we should continue to celebrate,” Steve says, sounding completely certain. 

“So – effectively, you’re claiming temporary insanity, for your friend – for _Bucky_ ,” She says. “And what about now? Where is the Winter Soldier currently? Has he tried to hurt you since the incident?”  
“We recovered the Winter Soldier of his own will around seven or eight months ago. He is staying amongst the Avengers at our facility, the location of which is classified,” Steve points out. “He is still undergoing psychological and physical treatment. 70 years of torture is a lot to recover from, even if you’re a super-soldier,” Steve says, with a sad smile. “Believe me,”

“A super soldier? – You’re saying that he has also been injected with the super soldier serum?” The anchor says, leaning forward slightly. Steve pauses, glancing at Maria – she shrugs, leaving it up to him to decide whether or not to confirm that.  
“Yes. A version developed by his captors and _abusers_ , but yes,” Steve says, making a point of emphasising the fact Bucky wasn’t compliant. “He didn’t consent to the experimentation, like I did. In fact, my rescuing of him from Hydra experiments in 1944, before his brainwashing, is well-documented. It has been for years,” Steve points out – after all, there was even a movie made, before he was brought out of the ice. 

The anchor pauses, and shuffles her papers, before continuing: “Given that he is – _recovering_ , as you’ve put it – do you think it’s wise that he’s supposedly been able to join in on Avengers missions? Would you class him as an Avenger?”  
“I would. He’s done great work for us, within the past month. And before that, he destroyed a lot of property being covertly used as Hydra bases, for illegal experimentation and terrorist operations – something the government and the Avengers have both failed to do,” He mentions, with a pointed expression, before continuing, “He’s undergone extensive testing and treatment. We didn’t let him come with us into the field until we were sure – until _he_ was sure he’d be okay. But rest assured, he’s a credit to his country,”  
“Do you mean Germany, or the USA?” The anchor asks.  
“This isn’t the war, Meaghan,” Steve says, smiling tightly, and trying not to lose his cool. “There’s no need to take sides, anymore. Even I know that,” He points out – the anchor smiles, so he continues, “Bucky is a Brooklyn boy, like me. It’s our home. There’s nothing he loves more than New York City,” Steve adds fondly, leaving out the fact that there’s something else he adores – _someone_. 

“That’s my next point. Please, if you would – take a look at this clip,” The anchor says. Steve raises his eyebrows, but casts his gaze to the television that’s been set up for him to watch in real time. The image of the anchor fades out, replaced by what looks like security camera footage – footage from within the Avengers tower. Footage that has been edited. 

First, Steve sees him and Bucky holding hands, as they make their way down to the ground floor in the elevator, smiling and laughing without sound – then, footage of them from the kitchen, with Bucky kissing Steve’s face before he goes out – then, footage from the lounge. Bucky leans across the table to kiss Steve, who reciprocates; he brings his hand up to the back of Bucky’s head, stroking his scalp, as they talk without audio to one another; they kiss, a few more times; Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s hair, and he gasps, looking extremely satisfied. 

Steve sits very still, as he watches the footage: his mouth falls open, very slightly. He didn’t realise the security cameras from their personal quarters had been hacked, too. He just thought it was their phones, and computers; SHIELD cables. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing – these videos have been edited together precisely, to showcase almost every single time Steve and Bucky have been intimate – no, _scratch that_ , he thinks, as he sees footage from their bedroom, of them both shirtless, kissing in bed. _They’ve stolen everything. They’ve shown everyone what we should have been able to share, if we wanted to, on our own terms._

“Any comment?” 

Steve glances from the footage, which has looped for him to watch again silently, to Maria: she’s frozen, unsure of what to do; Sam looks scandalised, and Natasha’s face is totally blank. She knew about their relationship, sure – but she wasn’t counting on the general public finding out. Hell, even the others hadn’t been told about it, yet. Only her and Tony knew, really - and Tony finding out was an accident. This was on purpose. 

So Steve decides he’s going on the offensive, again. He’s fought so many battles in his life – each time, standing up for what he believes in – this is no different, really. Not everyone is going to support him after this, but he doesn’t care at all. It’s time to see if they still support Captain America, when they find out who he really is. 

“First of all, that’s footage from my private quarters of the Avengers Tower. The fact that that has been released publicly, and that you’ve chosen to circulate it and broadcast it on your programme, is extremely low. Everyone in America should be able to live their lives freely, without their private affairs being made public. You didn’t need to show that footage,” He points out, keeping his voice even, at least for now.  
“Well – um, Captain Rogers, we’re sorry for any offense caused by-”

“I’m not finished,” Steve interrupts, and she shuts her mouth. “It’s well known that in the closing years of the war, Peggy Carter and I were . . . Romantically linked,” He says, awkward even now, with butterflies in his stomach momentarily, thinking back to Peggy; thinking about seeing her, again, and soon. He hopes she’s not offended, or upset, by all the news she’ll see about him. He doubts she would be, though. 

“I want to make it absolutely clear that that is true. I loved – _love_ Peggy Carter. However, yes, it’s true that Bucky Barnes and I are romantically involved, now. I was never using Peggy, or pretending to be – _straight_ , or something. I’m bisexual, and I love Bucky Barnes,”  
“. . . I’m sure you’re aware that this is – big news, Captain Rogers. Huge news, for every fan of Captain America, out there,” The anchor says. She's reverted back to addressing him more formally, given that he's clearly angry, regarding the footage being shown on TV. 

“It shouldn’t be,” Steve counters. “This shouldn’t be a big deal. Look, I know I’m going to lose fans today – but I don’t want the support of people who I can’t be myself around. I wanted desperately, when I woke up, to think things had changed since my day. Anyone who dislikes me for this is just proving that we haven’t moved forward. In my opinion – the America I love is one in which everyone is free to love who they love, without fearing judgement, or fearing for their lives. I believe that’s what God wants for us, too,” Steve adds. 

He looks up, and sees Sam smiling; he’s grinning widely, looking vaguely awed, at Steve’s speech, like he did when Steve made his _the price of freedom is high_ speech, as Sam took to calling it. Steve smiles back, and Sam gives him a thumbs up. Natasha, when he glances at her, is smirking, too: she nods once, in approval. Maria can’t help but smile, too, though she knows this will have caused an even greater amount of panic in the Avengers press department; an even larger shit-storm than the one they were already dealing with. 

“And what about the Winter Soldier? – Is he the world’s first openly gay . . . Costumed – adventurer?” She asks, choosing her words carefully. Steve swears if he listened hard enough, he could probably hear the voice in her earpiece saying _don’t call TWS a superhero_.  
“I don’t think he’d identify as gay. He’s dated plenty of women, and loved them – anything you read about Bucky Barnes being a hit with the ladies is real,” Steve says with a smile. “But given that I’ve already been outed today myself, I don’t think he’d appreciate me doing the same, and saying for certain what his sexuality is,” Steve adds. The anchor shuts her mouth, realising he’s making a calculated jab at her, and her network. 

She pauses for a second, shuffling her papers – she looks at a loss for what to say, for a few moments. Steve just waits for her to ask something else. He guesses this is a lot for her, and everyone working at the studio on her end, to process. It’s upsetting, really – that this should be news; that who he chooses to be with, and who he loves, is in any way _controversial_.

“I have to say, Captain Rogers– I’ve forgiven some partners for some pretty big things, in the past. None of them have ever tried to kill me, though,” The anchor says – Steve glances back at the screen, and sees that her expression is light-hearted, though. He smiles at her.  
“Well firstly, it wasn’t his choice,” He points out yet again, on a serious note – before adding, with a smile, “And second – you haven’t met Bucky Barnes,”  
“Will we ever get to see him?” She asks. Steve pauses.  
“. . . I think he wishes to remain to himself, for now. There’s a lot of people out there who want him dead. He’s actively trying to avoid dying and/or being tortured, again,” Steve says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.  
“Captain Rogers. Great to hear from you – our switchboards are lighting up with questions, but-”

Maria shakes her head, so Steve excuses himself, “I have to go, now, I’m afraid, Ms. McLaren. It’s been a long day, and we have a lot to deal with. Thank you for having me on the show, and letting me explain mine and Bucky’s side of things,”  
“It’s been an honour. I hope your schedule clears up, and we can have you on again, soon,” She says, obviously eager for more scoops similar to the one she’s gotten today.  
“Thank you,” He says, and smiles, not committing to anything. She turns away from his livestream, and the broadcast changes, focussing solely on her, as she reiterates the highlights of his interview, and the new information he’s shared – not least, the fact that he and Bucky are America’s first openly LGBT+ Avengers. 

The lights go down, and one of the tech personnel yells that they’re clear, and not being broadcast anymore – Steve lets out a huge breath, deflating, and standing up from the chair, to be greeted by his friends.  
“How do you think that went?” He asks Maria. She puffs out her cheeks.  
“I’d say there’s going to be fireworks. But other than destroying the internet-” She says, glancing at the hundreds of notifications she’s receiving on her phone, “You did well. Anyone who’s got a problem with you now is someone with an agenda to push. Which could be lots of people,” She points out.  
“Fuck them. You did great,” Natasha says. “Always glad to have someone else playing for my team,” She adds, clapping him on the shoulder. A blush rises high in Steve’s cheeks; Sam throws an arm around his shoulders. 

“Damn right you did great,”  
Steve looks up at him, relieved: “You’re alright with it? – I mean – you never know – it’s not like I thought you _wouldn’t_ be, or anything like that, but – sometimes, you just-”  
“Don’t know who to trust. It’s alright – my brother’s the same. You never know. But yeah, I’m happy for you – both of you,” Sam says lightly. Steve beams. He can only remember seeing one sibling he thought was a sister, in Sam’s old family photographs. He mentally adjusts his thinking. 

He just hopes, as he’s ushered up to the quinjet waiting on the roof for him and the other Avengers, that Bucky is happy, too. A day with his therapist will have helped, no doubt – but obviously, their relationship is pretty new (in the form that it is, now), so it could be a shock, to him. He hopes it doesn’t have a negative effect on Bucky’s mental health – or, he thinks darkly, Bucky’s chances of getting arrested. 

-

Tony Stark changes the channel on his television: he’s sitting in his private jet, on the way to his home in Malibu, having left the Avengers facility. He’s seen enough. 

He’s currently putting as much mileage as he can between the Avengers facility, and himself; he’s made sure that people know that’s what he’s doing, as well. He needs to be seen separating from the team. He needs to put his money where his mouth is, in terms of the statement he’s about to put out – Zemo very much agreed. 

Steve’s performance was good, even with Tony's calculated last-minute leak to CNN of him and Bucky getting cosy. There’s no denying that – he put across what he wanted to say, and he did it as simply as possible, sticking to the facts. That, plus he was bold enough to come out live on air, and not be ashamed at all; he called out homophobic Christians, and drew attention to the fact that Bucky was, in fact, an abuse victim, and has the defence of temporary insanity backing him up. 

So, with that in mind, Tony knows his statement has to be pitched just right – he doesn’t want to appear homophobic, and he doesn’t want to look like he’s endorsing what happened to Bucky. But the people have to know what he knows; they have to see what he sees. He has to gain back control of the team, and help Zemo get Barnes into custody for punishment.

He sends a message to Pepper, telling her he needs another press conference. He can almost sense her eye roll from here. 

-

By the time Steve gets in, it’s around ten o’clock: he texts Bucky that he’s on his way over, and if he wants to talk, he can meet him in the conference room, for a debriefing. He knows Bucky might not want to talk. He might not want to see anyone, let alone be touched – Steve thinks that he might sleep in his spare room, tonight. It sometimes happens that Bucky can’t stand to be around anyone – not even Steve – needing a complete lack of stimulation, in order to recover from a panic attack, and not be overwhelmed by everything around him. It doesn’t happen so much anymore, but Steve knows how to stay out of the way; he knows how to lock Bucky in, when he sends a message that he requires it. Those were the darkest days. 

He hopes that’s not the case, now. 

There are very few personnel around: the Avengers are the only ones hanging around, at this time, given that they both live and work in the base usually. The other employees are nine to five, mainly. 

Maria lands the quinjet on the grass outside the base: as it powers down, Steve exits the craft quickly, eager to get to the conference room, and see Bucky, if he’s there. He can only hope that Franklin has done his best; managed to succeed, where Steve was unable to, before, in talking him round – after all, it isn’t the end of the world; this isn’t the destruction of everything Bucky’s come to know, that’s helped him feel safe. It can be contained. Steve just has to try his best. 

His hair is blown by the breeze from the engines, as they power down, whipping the grass into a slowing frenzy all around him. It’s a warm summer night, but he still hunches a little smaller, gazing up at the stars and remembering what Bucky said about old light, once. Something he mentioned when half asleep. 

He strides quickly, followed by Sam and Natasha into the building, as he makes a bee-line for the conference room: he’s anxious to get Bucky’s reaction, though he’s unsure that he’s seen or heard about the interview, already. 

To his relief, when he enters the room, he sees Bucky sitting there: he sits with his hands placed palms down on the table, back rigidly straight, staring up with wide eyes at the holographic projection in the centre of the table. A quick glance at the projection makes Steve cringe, as he watches himself. He remembers, vividly, blushing as he saw news reels of an idealised version of himself going on fake adventurers with a bunch of actors playing soldiers, during the war – the media would like to present that version of him as true to life, but _this_ – the version fighting for his friend’s freedom, and his own . . . That’s the real him. Somehow, that makes the footage harder to watch. 

Bucky doesn’t appear to think so, though – he has an expression of faint awe, on his face, as he watches Steve speak. 

“Well firstly, it wasn’t his choice,” Steve is saying; Bucky swallows, and Steve swears he sees his eyes shining. He smiles fondly, as he hears Steve’s second reason for forgiving Bucky: “And second – you haven’t met Bucky Barnes,”

That’s when Steve chooses to intervene. 

“Buck?” He asks tentatively, not wanting to disturb him, or jar him in any way. 

Bucky glances up, from the moving, intangible picture: he gazes through it, and at Steve, whose face is illuminated through that of Meagan McLaren, pale and softly glowing. Bucky smiles softly at him. 

“I missed you,” He says honestly.  
“It’s only been a day,” Steve points out. Bucky shakes his head, looking down at his flat hands.  
“Felt like longer. Panic attacks. I'll be seeing Franklin again tomorrow," Bucky mutters. “. . . I was afraid they’d hurt you. That someone would get to you,” He continues, his voice gravelly; his defences completely warn down, by the looks of things. Talking is hard, for him, Steve knows. 

That’s when Natasha and Sam enter, bringing up the rear with Maria: Bucky glances up, stopping his confession abruptly; Steve bites his lip, and moves around to accompany Bucky, as he listens to the others discuss what comes next:  
“We’re getting messages through from . . . Pretty much everyone. They all want a piece of you, Steve – and you too, Barnes,” She mentions, but Bucky doesn’t look away from Steve. The interview footage ends, and the projector stops on an image of Steve’s smiling face, just before he went off air. 

Steve finally looks away from Bucky, and at her:  
“If they want to be involved, they can donate to veterans' charities. Or LGBT+ ones,” Steve suggests.  
“Smart move," Natasha comments, looking from Steve to Maria, who nods. “We only talk when we need to. We’ve said all we should, for now,” 

Steve listens to their words, but his attention is back on Bucky, now: they make eye contact, and he can see, now that the video footage isn’t flickering, that his eyes are rimmed with red, rather than their usual black; he was too tired and shaken to apply his _war paint_ , this morning. He looks wearier still, now, as Steve takes a seat beside him. Natasha reviews news channel footage, moving the projector so it shines onto one of the conference room walls; Sam watches avidly alongside her, discussing items that pop up, and gauging whether the overall response they’ve gathered is positive, or negative. 

Steve watches Bucky’s eyes skitter across the changing channels, flitting every which way endlessly, his pale face bathed in reds and blues and yellows and greens. Steve averts his gaze from Bucky’s face to join the rest of them (bar Maria, who steps outside to take a phonecall), in watching. 

“Too close to call,” Sam murmurs – and he’s right. While some channels – the more liberal ones – have called Steve’s interview ‘refreshingly honest’ and ‘triumphantly progressive’, as well as calling for a pardon for Sergeant Barnes, having reviewed the evidence available to the general public . . . Others are less forgiving. Of course, Fox News want Sergeant Barnes jailed – several pundits want the death sentence for him, regardless of whether or not it’s legal in this case – they’ve also called for Steve’s arrest, and for him to be sued, somehow, for _defamation of character_. 

“What the – of _himself_?” Sam asks, disgusted. “Since when does coming out count as defamation?”  
“Technically, Steve’s image is – public property. Or so _they_ say,” Natasha says doubtfully.  
“For fuck’s sake,” Bucky mutters. Steve smiles, and reaches across the table for his right hand. Bucky watches Steve’s hand travel towards him with a thoughtful expression, his anger almost forgotten, as it approaches him, a silent offer implicit. He looks back up, taking Steve’s hand without commenting on it. He adds, “. . . Steve was never just Captain America. He was always like this, before that – _costume_ ,”  
“You wanted me to keep it,” Steve points out, with a grin.  
“Yeah, well – always wanted to make sure you looked stupider than me,” Bucky says, with a thin smile.  
“Not possible,” Steve tells him. “You took all the stupid with you,” 

Natasha and Sam have stopped paying attention, at this point: they’re flicking through channels with harsh red graphics, and ones with American flags and sympathetic portraits, and ones with soldiers and rainbow flags and security camera footage – the one thing they’ve chosen to have in common, despite Steve’s protests, are the images of Steve and Bucky kissing. They just can’t help themselves. 

“Did you . . .” Steve begins carefully, drawing Bucky’s attention, “Did you see it all?” When Bucky nods, he asks tentatively, “Are we okay? – was that okay? Was I alright?” 

To his relief, Bucky squeezes his hand. 

“You did good, Stevie. I’m proud of you,” He says softly, his voice maintaining the gravelly quality to it – Steve thinks he’s probably cried a lot, today. He came so close to losing it all – or rather, he thought he did. Maybe now he’s convinced he might not. He’s just holding his breath. 

Steve moves to put his arm around Bucky’s neck, as slowly as he can: Bucky leans into him cautiously, taking a little while to stop being so tense, and to relax, like he usually does. He’s still afraid it’s all going to be pulled out from under him – everything, including Steve; the warmth of him, his presence, his support.  
“I’m proud of you, too,” Steve says sincerely. Bucky rolls his eyes, though it’s half-hearted.  
“You’re soft,” Bucky mumbles.  
“I’m allowed to be soft. I’ve got you where I want you,” Steve points out. Bucky loops his right arm around Steve, and they continue watching the news. 

After a few minutes, Bucky murmurs, “I got a reply. From Rikki Barnes,” 

Steve twists his head to look Bucky in the eye, his expression surprised - Bucky takes his silence as a sign to go on.  
“I’ll show you later, but . . . She said she thought I was crazy, at first. I mean, I didn’t have any evidence – other than the picture we attached. It could have been from anywhere,” Bucky reasons. Steve nods. “But then she saw the news today, and . . . Well, she’s glad I got in touch. She wants to meet me, one day. You too. She-” Bucky pauses; Steve can see him swallow nervously. “She said thank you. For everything,” 

Steve shifts slightly, clinging to Bucky a little tighter. 

“Smart girl,” He says softly, with a content expression. Bucky looks thoughtful, his eyes still staring at the flickering images in front of him. Steve knows Bucky has trouble accepting compliments; even in the forties he would wave them away, unless they were his own grand statements about how handsome, and smart, and funny he was – statements always made as jokes. Steve didn’t know, even then, how much self-esteem Bucky actually had. There were so many things left unsaid, across the board. 

But even now – even knowing for sure that he was responsible for Rikki’s rescue – he has trouble accepting her thanks. Perhaps he thinks he was just doing his job; perhaps he thinks the good doesn’t come anywhere near to outweighing the bad, yet. 

He doesn’t ask. He just says, “You did a good thing, Buck,” 

Cautiously, Bucky nods. Steve will take that. 

-

It’s about an hour later that Tony Stark decides to release his press statement: within 24 hours of the leak, it’s been prepared, supposedly as a reaction to today's events, and Steve’s interview. 

He releases it to a different news channel to the one Steve chose – after all, he’s chosen not to appear live, this time, so he wants to avoid comparisons to Steve’s interview. He’s worried he might not come across as well as Steve – the Senator felt similarly, when he consulted with him. 

In his house in Malibu, he sits back on the sofa in his lab, and listens to the anchor read out his statement, alongside a flattering picture of him that Pepper chose. She didn’t know what it was for – or, rather, she didn’t know what his statement contained. Truth be told, he’s been consulting her a lot less, of late: since Zemo intervened, and set him on a course to regain control of his legacy, and of the Avengers, Pepper has had much less involvement in his life. He’s not seen anywhere near enough of her, of late. He misses her. 

But there isn’t enough time. He pours himself a glass of scotch, and listens to the anchor deliver the statement. 

“. . . After not appearing on the latest Avengers roster to this channel’s knowledge, billionaire Tony Stark has released a statement about the Avengers leak that has occurred today – we’re in a position to share that statement exclusively with our viewers right now,” The anchor says, his excitement barely contained, as Tony takes a sip of his drink; lets it burn him, as he swallows, barely faltering. 

“I deeply regret the hacking of the Avengers’ personal devices that has taken place today. I regard it as a personal failure that their privacy has been compromised, and will do everything I can to find the culprit, and bring them to justice.  
“However, given the nature of the revelations about Sergeant Barnes have become public, I have chosen to step down from my position as an Avenger. I am willing to re-join the team, if he is not included on the roster. It is my view that we, as protectors of this country and the world, should not cooperate with criminals or terrorists, like Barnes.  
“In my previous conference I mistakenly informed the public about the existence of the Winter Soldier. I had been warned by Captain Rogers not to confide in anyone about the fact he and the Winter Soldier have been involved. He threatened me with legal action, but as one gentleman to another, I decided not to share his personal details,”

Tony looks down into his drink, remembering Zemo’s coaching: _a little embellishment is okay_. Tony’s starting to feel like a tailor now, though. Of course Steve never threatened a gagging order, or anything like that. Tony has to make it seem like he’s ashamed, and that he’s been deceiving the public wilfully, given that he’s done such a good job of defending himself, so far. 

“But now that Sergeant Barnes’ identity and multitude of crimes, bordering on terrorism of this country, have come to light, I implore the authorities to stop him. He has shown himself to be a mentally unstable individual who, though he is of strategic and sentimental value to Captain Rogers, is not fit to be an Avenger, and cannot be trusted. He must be tried, like any other criminal, and convicted. The defence of temporary insanity is convenient, but given that I have reason to suspect that the Winter Soldier murdered my parents Howard and Maria Stark, I would like a comprehensive trial to corroborate this evidence.  
“While it’s true that I and some of my fellow Avengers damaged Wakanda’s capital city last year, I have more than repaid the debt I owe Wakanda, and one day hope to earn T’Challa’s forgiveness – the Winter Soldier has not earned the forgiveness of the American people, whatever he and Captain Rogers may tell you about what he did in the war.  
“Captain Rogers and I, though friends, have been at odds over Barnes’ involvement with the Avengers, and his freedom, for a long time. I have repeatedly expressed my doubts, and he, along with other Avengers such as Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff – the Falcon and the Black Widow – have ignored me, compromised by their personal friendships with Barnes. No one is more compromised than Captain Rogers – leading me to suspect that I am the only one who can see the situation as it is.  
“Bearing that in mind, I call for the immediate arrest of Sergeant Barnes. He is a dangerous individual with access to firearms, courtesy of the Avengers, and of SHIELD, who have been proven to be a corrupt organisation on more than one occasion. This is why I will be issuing the address of the Avengers facility in upstate New York to the authorities within the next two days, in order to facilitate his capture. He is mentally unstable, and his freedom has not been earned. A true patriot would not let Captain America languish in the misguided belief that he owes a murderer, and a terrorist, anything at all,” The anchor finishes. 

Tony downs the rest of the drink, and wonders if the others are watching – deep down, he knows they are. He just hopes they can forgive him, one day soon, so they can reassemble. 

His phone rings, then: he frowns, standing up, and accepting the call, when he sees that Zemo is calling him _yet again_.

“Senator. You can’t keep away, can you?” He asks jokingly.  
“Are you in a position to provide me with the address of the Avengers base?” Zemo asks, straight to the point, as he is much more frequently, these days. His persuasive speeches, littered with flattery and logic, are taking a back-seat, now he has what he wants from Tony; now that he’s agreed to help him. 

“. . . Yeah. About that. What are you planning to do with it?”  
“Give it to the authorities, of course,” Zemo replies innocently.  
“I could do that myself, though – hell, I said I would in my statement. Seems like I could cut out the middle man, here,” Tony reasons.  
“Quite – however, I have mentioned to you before that I have assembled a team willing to extract Barnes from the facility, given that the police will probably be insufficient. I need the address to put my agents in position to intercept him immediately, and prevent him from escaping. Does that seem reasonable to you?” Zemo asks. 

Tony sighs – he’s unsure that he wants to give away his friends’ current address – especially since Natasha, Sam and even Clint have suffered in that same way already, today. He’s not sure he can bring himself to hurt them more. 

“Well . . .” 

There’s a pause. He decides just to do it, all of a sudden. 

“. . . Alright. You know best, I guess,” Tony says, though the words feel odd on his tongue. 

In his office, Zemo smiles, and types out a message to his team leader, ready for immediate dispatch.  
“I suppose I do,”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright I've almost completely finished this entire fic according to my very extensive plan, just a few more chapters to write. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!! You're all so lovely to me, I couldn't as for better readers. Cheers!!

“James,” Franklin greets. “Come in – sit down. There’s a good lad,” The therapist says, scribbling away busily at some papers on his desk. Bucky thought he told him not to call him that, but he lets it go, because he can do that now. 

He shuts the door behind him, moving mechanically to sit down on the couch, his back resting against the usual collection of patchwork blankets Franklin accumulated during his time as a SHIELD therapist. There’s a good few former SHIELD therapists working for the Avengers, now – ones like Franklin that found themselves out of a job, after Hydra attacked and Steve tore SHIELD down – so every Avenger has a different one. 

Franklin has dark hair, though he’s clearly advanced in age – something Bucky’s always felt makes him easier to talk to; more relatable, despite the fact he was born about twenty years after Bucky was first presumed dead. It seems like, maybe, older people use fewer words he doesn’t understand. Well – marginally, anyway. Anything that can reduce the amount of time he spends confused per day helps. 

His fingers twitch, tugging at small threads in the pile of blankets: the soft furnishings have always been comforting, to him. It’s just so different to the environment he grew accustomed to during his captivity, that he knows this is different; that he’s safe. That, plus the fact that Franklin has proven himself useful and trustworthy repeatedly during his treatment, and the fact he knows Steve is on the other end of the compound, reassures him that this is a safe place. There’s no need to be worried, here. No need to think he will be attacked. 

“How are things?” Franklin asks, setting down his pen without his characteristic care, and without replacing the lid. Bucky shrugs his right shoulder. It’s not the traditional start to their meetings, but he supposes Franklin wants him to bring up Tony’s statement on his own. He’d wanted to talk about Rikki, in this session – before Tony’s statement, that is. _Funny how he can manage to derail meetings he’s not even in_ , Bucky thinks somewhat bitterly. 

“Things have been hard. Steve . . . Feels betrayed, by Tony. Hanging him out to dry like that – saying he’s compromised. Telling the authorities where they can find us – find _me_. Feels kinda like he’s trying to take everything away from us,” 

Franklin doesn’t say anything, just watching Bucky – so he continues. 

“He was the one to bring up sides. Looks like he’s confident he’ll . . . _Win_ ,” Bucky says, a little disgusted. He wanted to avoid conflict, in his personal life, anyway. He likes to restrict hostility to enemy territories. 

Bucky sighs, using his right hand to rub at his face; he avoids his eyes, not wanting to smudge his eyeliner. It’s getting quicker to apply every day; it always looks better, with practise. He’s always been good with his hands, anyway – even if one of them is a little bulkier, now. At least the new hand is better at fine work. Natasha commented – when she saw him earlier, in the meeting about Tony’s statement – that he sure picked the skills up fast. She’s going to teach him how to use liquid eyeliner, one of these days. 

The meeting was charged, and uncomfortable, other than that: the others are all incredibly mad at Tony, not least for his plan to let the authorities know the location of their secret base. They can’t have the police knocking on their door, out in the open, or the press will follow; they’ll stake the place out, and even if Bucky isn’t arrested, they’ll all be hounded until they can find somewhere better to stay. With that in mind, Sam took off this morning, to stay with his Mom, under SHIELD protection. Natasha had to stay, though, given that all her safe houses have been compromised. Bucky knows it’s selfish, but he feels more comfortable with her around – she’s truly formidable. The more people who can protect him, and protect others from him effectively, the better. He feels bad about wanting that for himself. 

“He wants me captured again. He wants me in prison,” Bucky says with a sigh.  
“. . . You don’t think you deserve to be there?” Franklin asks finally.  
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Bucky answers, without a pause, tugging a thread loose.  
“Maybe?” Franklin asks. 

Bucky gazes out of the window: it’s bullet-proof, Franklin has reassured him on many occasions, even letting him try and break it with his metal arm to prove it, once. He watches the grass and leafy trees that surround the base sway in the breeze and the muted sunlight, and thinks idly that it’s cooler than yesterday. It’s been a tough morning, overcast, and filled with anger and fear – not least, Steve’s. He can’t believe Tony betrayed them like that, spouting half-truths and out-right lies, in order to get his way. Steve doesn’t know how they’re going to avoid the press, when the address of the base is leaked; Bucky just doesn’t know how he’s going to avoid being arrested, if he’s honest. 

“He’s got a point. I did some horrible things,” Bucky says – and curses himself, remembering how his therapist always likes to get him to repeat a new set of affirmations – different ones to the unhealthy ‘ _I can change back_ ’ ones he used to repeat, before his treatment – about how he didn’t choose the damage he inflicted, and he’s atoning, now. He hopes Franklin isn’t disappointed in him. 

“Yes. You did,” 

Bucky looks up from where his metal fingers, faintly glowing at the joints, are bunching in the blankets. His eyes slowly move to Franklin’s face: he spots that his expression is slightly smug, as he gazes down his nose at Bucky. 

Bucky frowns, his expression questioning, in the few seconds of silence that pass before Franklin adds, “The things you did . . .” He shakes his head. “If only you could remember what a monster you are,” 

Bucky swallows, looking his therapist up and down. Finally, unable to stand the smirking expression any longer without knowing why it’s there, he says, “I – I don’t understand,”  
“I know. You don’t get it now. You’ve got that same stupid look on your face – yeah, that one. God, I hated having to take orders from you,”  
“Doctor Franklin?” Bucky asks, stilling completely. 

The doctor just smiles widely, the expression anything but reassuring. 

That’s when Bucky makes a break for it – but before he can even rise from his seat fully, Franklin issues a command –  
“Cradle,” 

Bucky finds himself stopping completely, frozen in position, half-standing; his muscles complain at the uncomfortable position, as they freeze completely, locked in place. 

“The old ones are the best,” Franklin says with another malicious smile. “It’s a shame this one needs re-installing after it’s used. I was afraid it might not work. Sit back down,” 

Bucky does as he’s told. He doesn’t want to, but he does. He’s lost control over his body – his eyes still follow Franklin, though, tracking his movement; they’re the only part of him that’s still obeying his brain, screaming at him to fight, and to run, in that order. 

_Cradle_. He remembers that, from Wanda’s list – it’s supposed to send him into a fully-compliant trance. He’s supposed to be effectively unconscious, right now, according to Wanda – but he’s not. He’s completely aware of what’s going on. His body is reacting like it did, before she tampered with the trigger, but he’s aware. 

_She changed it. So I should be able to get control back_ , he reasons. He watches as Franklin stands, rising slowly, tucking his hands into his pockets – the trousers aren’t his standard tweed trousers, but undoubtedly military, and black; the boots are heavy-duty, too, and probably steel-capped. Bucky’s range of vision, given that his head is completely still, doesn’t allow him to check. 

He desperately tries to access his own limbs: the first thing he tries are his fingers, as Franklin approaches him. He hopes Franklin doesn’t notice as, to his delight, he manages to get his flesh fingers to twitch; the metal fingers are much quieter, now, almost _silent_ , so Franklin doesn’t hear when they move. 

He thanks whatever higher power abandoned him for seven decades for Wanda, and all the help she’s given him, as he realises he can do this – he can get it back. He can get it all back. He just has to bide his time, for a few moments. He just needs to pretend like he’s doing nothing; _thinking_ nothing. 

“. . . Look at that. Not a single fucking thing going on in here, is there?” Franklin says, reaching out to snap his fingers directly in front of Bucky’s eyes. He doesn’t even blink at the sound of it; the proximity. He doesn’t react, though his skin crawls and his nerves scream at him, when Franklin’s fingers – more coarse than he’d imagined – touch his face, patting roughly, as he laughs under his breath. 

“Master assassin. Nothing more than – what did Cap call you? – Oh yeah. A _puppet_. Even he knows it – you’re not useful for anything else other than what we tell you,” Franklin says, mocking Bucky. Bucky continues to bide his time – _this is just like the Hydra bases. You just have to pretend to be in a trance – pretend to comply, until he gives you a chance._

“At least I can take this off,” Franklin says, raising a hand to his ear, “I’ve spent too fucking long looking after you, protecting you. I don’t need to pretend to be your therapist too,” 

Bucky’s eyes follow the movement, as he accesses a device on his ear; one that allows him to disguise his face. As he deactivates the device, his true identity is revealed, to Bucky’s horror: he sees the smirking face of Brock Rumlow looking down at him. He’s different to how Bucky remembers him: his skin is horribly scarred, burned deep, a mass of red and shining scar tissue. It’s a consistency Bucky is very much familiar with, from looking in the mirror. He finds it grotesque to look at; aside from the fact this man was compliant in and perhaps responsible for parts of his torture and brainwashing, his looks remind him too much of his own disfigurement. 

“So long I spent having to protect you. Take your orders and deal with your bullshit. Hydra’s little prince. I could never be you,” He laughs derisively. “For so many reasons. For one, I’d never let them treat me the way they treated you – truly pathetic. You’d just let them do anything, wouldn’t you?” Rumlow asks, his voice growing soft in a way that’s somehow more sinister than if he were yelling. 

Bucky blocks out his incessant taunting by wondering what happened to Franklin: he doesn’t doubt that he’s real; there’s no way Rumlow has been here, infiltrating the Avengers staff for that long. He made sure to hear previous patients’ testimonies, before he let Franklin treat him, at all. So he must be somewhere. Bucky hopes desperately that Rumlow spared his life, if he got to him. But pretending to be him would mean Rumlow wouldn't set off the perimeter sensors, or trip any alarms - it's the perfect disguise, to walk into the facility unquestioned. Rumlow is a professional. 

“The others will be here soon. All this over you – they don’t realise you’re nothing. _Winter Soldier_ – I could have done a better job than you, any time. And yet we’re wasting our time with you. We’re gonna drag you through the fucking mud, before we kill you. Believe me, one way or another, you’re not getting out of this alive. And neither is Rogers,” 

Bucky’s eyes widen minutely – he hopes Rumlow doesn’t see, but he can’t help it. He needs to get out _now_. He needs to warn the others about the infiltration, even if he’s thrown to the wolves, here. 

“. . . That’s right. We’ll get Rogers. I bet you let him do whatever he wants to you, as well,” Rumlow says, lowering himself to Bucky’s eye level, hands on Bucky's knees, sliding slowly yet roughly up his thighs. From this position, Bucky can see the complete darkness behind his eyes; the malicious glint, taking genuine pleasure in hurting Bucky, and discussing destroying his world. 

“Probably not in the same way – but who’s counting, right?” Rumlow reaches out, going to touch the back of Bucky’s neck, “All you gotta do is lie back, and . . .” 

That’s when Bucky makes his move. He utilises the speed that Stark’s arm provides him and grabs Rumlow’s wrist, wrenching it around, and flooring Rumlow in one smooth movement. He leaps up as quickly as he can, stumbling slightly, as his limbs are still stiff and not entirely under his control, yet. Rumlow rights himself quickly, scrambling up ungracefully – standing between Bucky and the door. 

Rumlow smirks, bringing up his fists. 

“You really think you can beat me?” Rumlow laughs.  
“Try me, pal,” Bucky says, though he’s surreptitiously trying to find an out for the situation.  
“Is that what you said to Rogers?” Rumlow asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Bucky grits his teeth, and makes a move. He kicks the couch out of the way, making a dive for the door. Rumlow’s fist hits him in the gut, winding him – but he kicks out, contacting Rumlow’s knee, and though he’s wearing kneepads the force of it is enough to cause him to slip over, and grunt in pain. 

Bucky tries to make his escape, but Rumlow grabs him by the ankle, yanking on his leg so he falls onto his chest, slamming onto the floor, as Rumlow tugs him closer. He pulls Bucky beneath him, despite his struggles, bearing his whole weight down upon him, and smashing his face with his right fist over and over until Bucky stops squirming - he pants, his vision reduced by the blood from his brow dripping into his eyes, watching Rumlow smirk and retrieve a pair of thick black handcuffs from his belt. The moment he tries to flip Bucky over onto his front to cuff him, Bucky swings his metal fist into Rumlow’s head, more conscious than he was letting on – he feels something give, and Rumlow yells, his grip slackening for a moment. It’s enough time for Bucky to claw his way out from under Rumlow, scrambling to his feet and out of Franklin’s office, wiping the blood from his eyes as he stumbles out of the room. 

He looks both ways as he makes his way through the compound: Rumlow didn’t come alone. He said so. He always had his STRIKE team before – _before, before he tried to get better, before he had everything and felt safe, before this resurgence of the hell he lived for 70 years_ – he mentioned others; he has to be working with someone or other, now. 

Making his way through the compound, he feels exposed, without a weapon – before he remembers his arm. He glances down at it: the only function he can remember reading about is releasing an EMP blast, to take out all electronic devices around him. It won’t be any use against guns, but it could work against – well, not much that they could actually be using, he realises, dismayed. It’s useful, but not right now, really. 

But he knows, deep down, that he doesn’t need a weapon. Deep down, the base of what he is – though his therapist says he’s a man, and the others think he’s an Avenger, and Steve thinks he’s someone he loves – he knows he’s a _weapon_ , too. 

He _is_ a weapon. And he’s got one objective – he has to get to the others, and warn them that the base has been compromised. They’re not safe, and it’s up to him to help them. 

-

“Well, it’s official,” Natasha says, sitting back from her computer, and folding her arms. She looks over to Maria, then to Steve, and finishes, “There’s a warrant out for James’ arrest,” 

Steve’s head is in his hands; he nods, and gives a great sigh, before dragging his hands down his face, and lacing his fingers together.  
“Fantastic,” He mutters.  
“Thanks, Tony,” Natasha adds sarcastically. From where she’s concentrating hard, typing like she’s punishing the keyboard, Maria nods in agreement, all the same. 

Steve just hums: he looks out of the conference room window, hoping Sam’s having a good journey to his Mom’s house; that he’s having a better day than his fellow Avengers. Similarly, he hopes Bucky’s therapy is going well – he was much improved, yesterday, after talking to Franklin. He wonders if this warrant will undo all that hard work. 

“What?” Natasha asks, flicking him on the arm to bring him out of his thoughts.  
“. . . Nothing,” He says, sitting back.  
“Bullshit. What is it?” She asks again impatiently.  
“. . . I wonder. If I hadn’t given that interview yesterday – if I hadn’t brought up me and Bucky-”  
“Someone else would’ve,” Natasha dismisses.  
“But – if I’d denied it. Do you still think . . . Do you think they’d want to arrest him?” He asks her, genuinely wanting her opinion. 

She purses her lips, and shifts slightly, looking him in the eye all the same, as she replies: “Maybe. Maybe not. Some people were rallying a lot harder for his arrest, after they found out you’re together,” She replies honestly. “But all rivers lead to the sea. It would have come out eventually – you took control, this way. And besides – I can’t see you lying to the people over anything,” She adds. He smiles, because he knows she’s right, like always – he couldn’t hide that part of himself, any longer; he couldn’t lie, or deny himself, or Bucky, anymore. 

At that moment, the door bursts open: Steve looks up, surprised, and is confronted with the sight of Bucky, face and hands covered in blood, lumbering through the doors. Steve jumps to his feet, shocked – before he can ask what’s going on, Bucky grits out:  
“Rumlow – more coming – we have to go,” 

Steve looks over to Natasha, who’s up and ready to go: she nods once. She knows Rumlow is bad news – Rumlow usually means _Hydra_ , even if the world thought it had seen the last of them. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, Steve laments. 

“Go. Grab what you can. I’ll clear a quinjet,” Maria says quickly, standing and taking a handgun from her thigh holster, unashamed of reaching under her skirt, business-like and single-minded even in the face of blood, and monsters like Hydra. 

“The bag,” Bucky bites out, as Steve rounds the table, supporting him as he stumbles dizzily from the room.  
“Easy, Buck-” Steve says, though there’s a sense of urgency to his warning.  
“No time,” Bucky says, shaking his head, and breaking into a run, out of Steve’s grasp. His path lists, but he rights himself, despite the blows to his head Steve can clearly see he’s sustained. 

Steve catches up with him quickly, as they enter the quad, and make their way to their living quarters: luckily, both of them have bags prepared for situations like this. Their emergency bags contain clothes, cash, and combat materials, and can be carried easily. Steve thanks God that Bucky convinced him to make one, when he very first moved in with Steve, and was paranoid as hell – perhaps with good reason, Steve realises, now. 

“How did Rumlow find out where this place was?!” Steve asks, as they barrel into their apartment, making a direct break for the bedroom, and the cupboard containing their emergency bags.  
“I-” Bucky begins – but cuts himself off, stopping still, staring with great intensity out of the window. Steve almost runs into him, until he sees what Bucky sees: blue lights, in the distance. Perhaps if the two of them didn’t have the super soldier serum to enhance their eyesight, they wouldn’t have seen the police cars. 

“. . . Police,”  
“Rumlow’s working with the police?!” Steve asks, the words tasting wrong on his tongue.  
“He – tried to bring me into custody,” Bucky says, not believing it either, but unable to deny the facts.  
“What the hell is going on?!” Steve asks, as Bucky dives into the cupboard. 

He hands Steve his bag; Steve makes a lunge for his shield, retrieving it from beside his bed.  
“Come on,” He says, making to leave the room – but Bucky is going into another cupboard. “What is it?” He enquires urgently – before watching as Bucky pulls his old prosthesis from amongst a load of folded clothes, lovingly wrapped.  
“In case this one breaks,” Bucky grits out, wiping the blood from a cut above his eyebrow away with the back of his hand. His hair is wild, stray locks coming away from the bun Steve watched him fashion it into this morning; he looks like he’s been through hell and, given that he’s mentioned that Rumlow was involved, Steve can pretty much guarantee it. 

He just nods quickly, slinging his bag onto his back, taking up his shield, and taking Bucky’s free hand with his free hand. He leads him out of the apartment, not sparing a second to gather anything else, and heads towards the hangar. 

He feels a little like he’s dragging Bucky along, preventing him from swaying from side to side, dizzy and probably concussed, as they make their way to the quinjet: it’s in their sight in a couple of moments, and they see Nat at the door, already throwing her own pre-prepared bag onto the jet, and beckoning them to hurry up. Maria is standing in front of the craft, fingers pressed to her earpiece, talking into it. 

They hurry aboard, and Natasha follows them in – Maria doesn’t do so.  
“Agent Hill?” Steve asks reaching out a hand to her, as Bucky makes his way inside.  
“Go. I’ll hold them off,” She says, sounding determined.  
“The police are coming,” Steve says urgently.  
“I know. Stark lied – he leaked the address already. Wanted to catch us off-guard,” She says distractedly, checking her clip. Exasperated, Steve tries again to get her to come with them:  
“Rumlow’s brutal. Him and his team-”  
“Haven’t met me,” She finishes, looking up at him with a solemn expression. “Now go,” 

He pauses just a second longer, but respects her choice:  
“. . . Thank you. For everything,” He says, nodding to her.  
“Take her up!” Maria calls to Nat, who’s already in the pilot’s seat, ready to leave through the open hangar roof. She engages stealth mode immediately, making sure they aren’t seen, and therefore followed. Steve hits the red button to shut the door, watching, dismayed, as Maria makes her way out of the hangar, and to the front of the compound, sounding the alarm. 

Nat’s a brilliant pilot, as they’ve always known, even in a tight spot: however, they’d usually take the jet out onto the airfield and take off from there, rather than ascending vertically, as they are now. It’s a challenge, all of them know: Steve watches as Bucky automatically sits down beside her in the co-pilot’s seat, and takes up the controls, to help her stabilise the craft.  
“What are you doing?” Steve asks.  
“Co-piloting,” He says, his voice monotone.  
“In your condition?” Steve asks worriedly.  
“I’ve done this with more brain damage,” Bucky points out, unnervingly casual when mentioning _the chair_ , as he calls it. They don’t have time to discuss that, now.  
“You can fly one of these?” Steve asks, taking hold of the overhead railing, as Natasha takes them up, helped out by Bucky. Steve can see him raise his eyebrow, reflected in the glass.  
“How do you think I got up to the helicarrier?” 

Steve hums, surprised but impressed. He doesn’t have much piloting experience, and – well, he had to crash-land, last time, into ice. Never again. 

“Easy,” Natasha says in a low voice, concentrating hard on getting them out of the building’s roof – the gap is small, given that Maria hasn’t had a lot of time to open the hangar for them. But Steve watches as they make it, with inches to spare.  
“Nice,” She says triumphantly, breathing a sigh of relief. 

Steve makes his way over to the window, staring out, and squinting down at the ground: from their position, he can just about see the dozen or so police cars pulling up to the compound, some making their way around the perimeter, wanting to block off any attempt at escape. He watches as the roof closes, and many small figures swarm the base. 

He wonders how the hell Rumlow is tied up in all this – _surely he can’t be working with the police, even if he was trying to arrest Bucky? What would Rumlow want with Bucky? He’s done much worse than Bucky, and all of his own accord._

“I thought Rumlow was dead,” Natasha calls to him, as the figures he’s staring at become smaller, with greater altitude. She takes them away from the base, as Steve makes his way shakily across the jet and to where Natasha and Bucky are piloting.  
“So did I,” Steve admits.  
“. . . He was scarred. Looked like my left shoulder, but on his face,” Bucky recalls, wiping his face with the back of his right hand yet again.  
“Hey – you’re still bleeding,” Steve mentions. 

Natasha glances towards Bucky, and back at the sky ahead of her: “Alright, Barnes. That’s enough – I’ve got it from there. Let Steve fuss over you a bit,” She says, though there’s no humour in her voice. She’s too preoccupied with the twists and turns that today has brought them. 

Bucky sighs, but leaves go of the controls, making his way shakily to the nearest passenger seat. Steve follows him, crouching down in front of him, and checking on Bucky’s face: he’s got a nasty cut above his eyebrow, and one of his eyes is swollen. Black eye make-up is smudged and mixed with the blood drying on the skin surrounding his eyes.  
“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathes. “I hope you got a hit in,” 

Bucky smirks wearily. “Yeah. Think maybe I cracked his skull on my arm,” He says. Steve smiles.  
“Good,” He murmurs, as he reaches under a nearby seat for the medical kit. He gets to work wiping the blood and the black smudges from around Bucky’s eyes as best as he can, watching as his eyes slip shut against the cold of the sterile wipes; as he flinches away from the stinging touch not because it hurts, but because it's sudden, and cold. There's nothing Steve can do about it. 

Steve seals the cut above his eye with some temporary butterfly stitches. “I’ll sew these up, if we find somewhere safe to land,” Steve says. Bucky nods, opening his eyes again. “Sorry about your war paint,” Steve adds, looking down at the black on the discarded wipes. 

Bucky just shrugs, feeling a little dejected. It helps him feel like him, to wear make-up. But he’s lived without it before. He can manage. 

“Any ideas about where we’re going to land?” Natasha calls back to them.  
“I don’t know. Last time something this bad happened, we went to Clint’s,” Steve points out.  
“I don’t think his wife would be happy to have me around their baby,” Bucky mentions, pressing his slightly cool left limb against his face, as a make-shift ice pack. “Don’t know if Clint would want me around, either,” Bucky adds.  
“. . . I don’t know if we can count on Barton. They’re gonna have tabs on everywhere we might flee to,” Natasha reminds them.  
“Sam,” Steve realises, and shakes his head, sitting down beside Bucky. He considers the danger Sam's been put in today, horrified. “I didn’t think,”  
“It’s done. He can look after himself,” Natasha reassures him. None of them bring up the fact his family is with him, too. Steve knows he can handle protecting others, and can beat almost anyone in a fight, but having to protect his whole family is a huge burden.  
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you just handed me in,” Bucky mutters. 

Steve pauses, watching as Bucky gazes down with a baleful expression at his civilian shoes – sneakers, with drips of blood on them. Steve watches his eyes track the patterns. He gets focussed on blood, sometimes. Steve caught him staring down at the sink after shaving, in the first few weeks of living with him, for half an hour. He didn’t shave much after that. 

“And let Rumlow have you?” Steve asks. “He’s a monster, Buck. And he’s wrapped up in this somehow – we have to find out how,” Steve asserts. Bucky doesn’t say anything. 

“Sam’s out. Clint’s out. Wherever the Vision is, is probably a no-go too,” Steve mentions. “We could track down Wanda, in Sokovia?”  
“I don’t know. I don’t think they’re your biggest fans there, either. Or mine. They don’t much like any Avenger who isn’t Wanda,” Natasha reasons. 

Steve sighs, and shakes his head – most of the people he knows that aren’t Avengers are dead: Dugan, Morita, Jones, Falsworth . . . All gone. Peggy’s not well enough to drag into this, and everyone knows he visits her often, so she’s probably not an option either. 

“What about-” Bucky begins, but bites his lip. Steve watches him consider whether or not to say whatever it is, surprised – after all, Bucky knows even fewer people than even he does in this post-war world, ostensibly.  
“What is it?” Steve asks, desperate at this point for anyone they could trust; anywhere they could go.  
“We could go and see Rikki,” He mentions quietly. Natasha hears, anyway.  
“Who’s Rikki?” She asks, perplexed. 

Steve tears his gaze away from Bucky’s guilty expression, looking over at Natasha, as he says:  
“Rikki Barnes. One of Bucky’s surviving relatives. One we rescued from the AIM base a few weeks back,” Steve explains briefly.  
“They have a house? Somewhere remote?” She asks. Steve looks to Bucky for the answer.  
“Yeah. Big farm house in Kansas. Rebecca couldn’t stand to live in the city after-” He cuts himself off. “She moved a few times, before they settled down,” Steve finishes for him. Bucky bows his head.  
“Her parents have moved out. She mentioned she’s on her own,”  
“And she's on your side?” Natasha presses.  
“I think so,” Bucky says, though he sounds unsure. 

“We haven’t got anything else,” Steve points out. “They’d never look for us there. No one else knows the connection between her and Bucky yet,”  
“I wouldn’t bring her up if we didn’t need somewhere so bad,” Bucky mentions. 

Natasha sighs, but asks, “You got the address?”  
“On my phone,” Bucky says, retrieving it from his pocket. It’s one with buttons – touch-screens don’t work well with metal fingers, so the R&D department made one especially for him, recently.  
“Great. You’d better throw that thing out the cargo door as soon as we have everything we need from it, though,” She warns. “If they can hack us, they can definitely track us,” 

Bucky retrieves Rikki’s email from his phone, and stands shakily, making his way cautiously over to Natasha, to read out the address. It might be a long flight.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I love you all and thank you for reading!! Second, I aim to have all of this published before I go to work again on the 1st of September, so with that in mind I've decided to try to publish 2 chapters a week until it's done, on Mondays and Thursdays. If I can't manage it then it'll just be Mondays like usual, but watch this space. Thanks!!

“This must be it,” Steve says thoughtfully, looking up at the great, looming property – it’s an old one, but big, with many rooms, practically in the middle of nowhere. All around them are fields of corn; dusty backroads, and no other buildings for miles. There’s a beat-up truck in the driveway, and an American flag hanging from a flagpole attached to the front of the house; it’s slightly crumpled, and ill-attended. Steve appreciates the sentiment anyway. 

“No one and nothing else around,” He adds. Bucky just nods. 

There’s a pause, as they stand in front of the porch, listening to the crops wave gently in the breeze: Bucky just stares at the door knocker, without taking a step. Natasha’s taken the jet to a field a little way away, not wanting to attract attention right to Rikki’s door, if somehow it’s tracked to this remote location, even in stealth mode. They can’t be too cautious, after all. 

“. . . Do you want me to knock?” Steve asks quietly. Bucky shakes his head right away – he knows he’s got to do this for himself, no matter how intimidating it might be for him. 

Finally, he takes a deep breath, and steps up onto the porch: he steels himself, and knocks on the door hard three times, before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his green jacket. He’s glad they're wearing civilian clothes, so as to be slightly less intimidating – even if they are splattered with blood, in some places. 

There’s movement inside; it’s extremely quiet, outside the range of normal human perception and far away, Bucky thinks, looking back at Steve. He hears it too. But as the occupant grows closer to the door, they can both hear heavy steps; there’s a pause, for a tense moment, before the door opens. 

She’s smaller than Bucky expected: she looks much younger than she did lying there, asleep on a table. Still old behind her eyes, though – old beyond her years. He knows the look from the mirror. And from looking at Steve.  
She doesn’t say anything, at first: she considers him from his feet, to his concealed hands, to his face – her gaze stops there. She stares intently at his features. He keeps still, his expression very neutral. He doesn’t smile; doesn’t move any part of him, for fear of unnerving her. 

Slowly she brings her left hand up to her mouth: she grows a little paler.  
“You – look just like the pictures,” She whispers, almost inaudibly. He finally breaks out a smile.  
“I don’t believe that,” He says, a note of cautious humour in his voice.  
“. . . Without the beard, obviously – and the hair,” She adds quickly, gesturing with the same hand. 

He smirks; his eyes travel downwards, to her legs. The prostheses she’s wearing are athletic, formed of carbon fibre, or some other light-weight material. _Expensive_ – he guesses SHIELD’s money to keep quiet had something to do with them. He notices that the rest of her clothes are for working out, too – they must have caught her about to exercise, or just after. She doesn’t look exerted, though. 

“Excuse the hardware,” She mutters.  
“It’s not a problem,” Bucky says quickly, bringing his metal hand out of his pocket with a subdued wince; he scratches the back of his head awkwardly. She gives a small smile of understanding. 

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” She admits.  
“Uh – there’s been a change of plans,” Bucky understates. “We don’t have anywhere to go,” He admits. 

Rikki looks like she’s about to ask who _we ___is – then she looks past Bucky, and sees Steve. He’s smiling, one of those expressions that Bucky knows make his fans have a heart attack, if they see them. Her eyes widen.  
“Holy shit,” She says. Bucky shrugs.  
“Yeah,” He agrees.  
“It’s . . . It’s real. This is real,” She states, running her left hand through her hair, which is quite short, and very dark. Bucky shrugs again, and nods.  
“There’s a warrant for Bucky’s arrest,” Steve tells her, not wanting to dupe her into anything she’s not comfortable with. 

She looks between them for a moment, considering whether or not to let them in: she looks out across the fields, and at the greying sky above them. It’s a hot day, but there’s barely any sun. The wind is picking up.

“No one will find you out here,” She tells them finally, standing to one side.  
“Thank you,” Steve says, stepping up onto the porch beside Bucky. She looks up at them both, and excuses herself -  
“Sorry,” She says, showing them inside; they both notice she’s holding a shotgun in her right hand, which was previously concealed by the door frame. Neither of them think anything of it, considering her history; their own. She stows it in a cabinet beside the door. 

“Do you . . .” She says, and clears her throat. “I haven’t had guests in a while. Do you want something to drink? – I haven’t got much. Do you want some water, or something? Some milk?” 

Bucky licks his lips, but doesn’t say anything. Steve watches him carefully, and takes over.  
“We’ll both have water, if that’s okay,” He says, with a smile.  
“You can sit down,” She says, indicating the selection of couches and armchairs in the next room. It’s a lounge designed for a big family. 

The place is traditional: there’s a lot of old furniture, and the wallpaper is most likely vintage, but it’s immaculately clean, if a little tired. Bucky recognises the military-grade cleanliness that surrounds them from his motel rooms last year. 

They both settle on the largest couch, dumping their bags and Steve's shield on the floor beside them. They keep their distance from one another for now, in case they upset her – Bucky would hate to think that one of his only living relatives would hate that part of him (over so many worse parts), but they can never know who to trust. With anything, apparently. 

She brings the glasses of water into the room, an expression of concentration on her face as she walks: Bucky recognises that look. It’s the same one he gets when he has to remove or replace his prosthetic arm, at all; do things without it. He nods his thanks, as she hands him the glass, before carefully lowering herself down into an armchair. She eyes Bucky's spare arm, which sticks out of his duffel bag at an awkward angle, with interest. 

“Thank you for letting us in,” Steve says. Bucky just sips the water; Steve knows he needs it, having lost blood, earlier. “. . . Our friend will be here soon, too. Is that okay?”  
“Friend?” She asks folding her arms protectively.  
“Natasha,” Steve says. “You might know her as the Black Widow,”  
“God,” Rikki says, blinking hard. “. . . Are you bringing the Falcon too?” She asks hopefully. 

Steve looks down sharply: Bucky sees his expression drop, as he considers what might be happening to Sam, right now. He’s sure to be thought of as an accomplice to Steve and Bucky, and their escape, even if he wasn't strictly there. 

Bucky reaches out, and places his right hand on Steve’s knee surreptitiously; it still draws Rikki’s eye, until he speaks.  
“We’re not sure where he is,” Bucky explains quietly. “It all happened so fast,”  
“What happened to your face?” She asks, nodding at him.  
“Someone tried to arrest me. Someone bad,” He answers bluntly. He reaches up with his flesh fingers to feel the cut above his eyebrow – only to find that it’s largely healed, already. 

“Steve,” He says, turning to him, and drawing his eye – Steve looks at the cut, or what’s left of it, and smiles.  
“That was quick,” Steve comments.  
“I guess my body’s not using all its energy on fixing brain damage,” Bucky says, a note of dark humour in his voice.  
“Yeah,” Steve agrees softly. Rikki averts her gaze, feeling like she’s seeing something private, for a moment. 

“. . . You need to stay here?” She asks finally.  
“If that’s okay,” Steve says, turning back to her. She nods – she points at their bags, and says,  
“I have a spare room. Or four. The best one is upstairs, and the first right,” She suggests.  
“Thanks,” Steve says – he picks up his and Bucky’s things, and stands, making his way to the stairs, which are visible from the room they’re in. Bucky watches him go anxiously. 

Rikki sighs, and he looks back at her as they listen to Steve’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. There’s a slightly tense atmosphere between them, at that moment: words hanging in the air unsaid. They both have questions. He won't speak first. 

“So,” She says. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” He nods, not wanting to get into semantics.  
“Sergeant Barnes. Like you,” He says. She smiles. “How can your name be Barnes, anyway?” He asks, wanting to talk about something even vaguely normal. 

“My grandma was Rebecca Barnes. Your sister – we were very close,” She mentions. Bucky smiles sadly. “She had a son – he was a Barnes-Proctor, but he decided to drop the Proctor. He had me, and here we are,” She explains. He hums, content with that as an answer. 

“. . . Is it weird for you? – That my Mom was Japanese?” She asks, her expression cautious. He can see she doesn't want her impression of him, from any stories that have been passed down to her through the generations, to be ruined by old xenophobic attitudes. 

Bucky thinks back to wartime propaganda, as his metal fingers pull at a thread from the couch – he has to stop, after convincing himself in a matter of seconds that he’s not safe sitting there, comfortable on a couch, like he was in Franklin’s office. She watches his fingers, curious as well, given her own loss of limbs, about his prosthesis. He's aware that it's not like anything any civilian has ever seen, or used, so it's certainly a curiosity. 

“No. We’ve worked with all sorts of people, since the war. And during it – you must know about Jim? – Did he make it into the history books?” Bucky asks. Steve told him about Jim Morita himself, using his own memories, and classified photographs, to remind Bucky of each of the Howling Commandos personally. Bucky knows them enough to miss them, now. 

She shakes her head. Bucky frowns – he’s disappointed to hear that.  
“Jim Morita - Japanese-American. Liked big damn guns,” He says, smiling with his remembrance. Hydra did their best to take any happy moments from him. But they didn’t get everything. “Worked well into the cold war, apparently. I don’t know where he is now,” Bucky admits.  
“Huh,” Rikki says, interested. It's a lot to consider. 

“So it’s not weird . . . Some of the worst things that ever happened to me were caused by people who had a problem with anyone who wasn't blonde haired and blue eyed, anyway,” He adds quietly, finally looking up at her. 

She purses her lips. He takes a long gulp of water, before setting the glass down as softly as he can on a small table beside the couch, and asking, “Where’s your bathroom?"  
“There’s one attached to the room you’re staying in,” She replies quickly, as he stands up. She doesn’t stand too. It takes a while for her, sometimes.  
“Thank you,” He says, and quickly makes his exit. 

The stairs are steep: the vintage wallpaper changes hue and pattern between the rooms; the walls are lined with old family pictures. He pauses with each step to look at all of them – his heart aches as he sees a photograph of Rebecca, looking older than when he last saw her, but still in her prime, on her wedding day. The man she’s with is tall, and built – maybe he was a GI. He touches the glass protecting the fading, brown and white photograph with his metal forefinger, feeling desperately close but hopelessly far from her. He never realised just how much he missed her, until now. It wasn’t just Steve he protected and supported, whether he protested or not, back in the 40s. Rebecca was a tough one to look after, too. So stubborn – she was a Barnes, after all. 

As he slowly continues up the stairs, he becomes more and more preoccupied with the framed photographs: there are photographs of Rebecca’s children, of which she had four, he can see – they came from a big family, so it stands to reason she’d want to replicate that. _Especially after losing a sibling_ , he thinks, sadly. 

He sees her son’s wedding photograph: his wife, Rikki’s mother, is beautiful; he’s married in his military uniform, so Bucky assumes he must have carried on the tradition, started by Bucky’s father, of going into the army. He smiles, as he comes across the baby photographs of Rikki – she looks pretty similar, even now – just bigger. And more fatigued. Life’s thrown some bad things at her, obviously. 

When he gets upstairs, and follows her directions to the room she’s given him and Steve, he’s pleasantly surprised to see it’s a room with a double bed. He knows she has a lot of rooms, and could have separated them – so clearly, she picked up on the fact they’re together, or she’s been watching the news. Maybe she even saw Steve’s interview. 

But aside from the fact she’s given them a bed to share, he observes that the large, well-decorated room features a large collection of memorabilia on top of a huge dresser. Steve is standing in front of it, smiling softly at what he sees there: there are many photographs, and he notices a frame on the wall. As he gets closer, Bucky can see that the frame contains a medal: his eyes widen, slightly, seeing that it was awarded posthumously to him, and presented to his family. 

“Oh my god,” He breathes. Steve turns his head, grinning at him.  
“You know you’re on the wall of valour, right?” He asks, a little concerned. Bucky just stares at him in confusion. “At SHIELD. There’s a memorial to agents who gave their lives in the line of duty – and there’s a memorial at Arlington, too. To both of us. With statues,” 

Bucky just stares, for a few moments more; he looks from Steve to the medal, and bites his lip. He desperately tries not to think about what he deserves. He doesn’t want to tell Steve he doesn’t think he's worthy of all that recognition, and honour, and thanks. He _killed_ SHIELD agents, after all. Just like Tony keeps saying. 

“Are you alright?” Steve asks him gently, reaching out to touch Bucky’s shoulder – Bucky leans into the touch before they make contact, letting Steve know it’s okay.  
“. . . It’s just a lot,” Bucky mumbles. Steve nods.  
“You’re telling me. They’ve collected so much original Captain America merchandise,” He says, considering the dresser, again. “The draws are full of it,” He says, turning his body towards it: he looks at packs of trading cards; brushes his fingers against the blue material of an old Captain America costume sticking out from a draw he opened, before. He feels a strange sense of nostalgia; melancholy, knowing he missed something really special. 

“You were close with my family,” Bucky points out, coming right up to Steve, practically whispering in his ear. “Came around for dinner, more often than not, during winter. I remember that much,” 

Steve smiles sadly, turning his head to look at Bucky: his eyes are sad, like they often are. This is hard for him, Steve knows. The weight of what he lost is heavy on his shoulders; Steve knows the feeling, having visited the Smithsonian more times than he can count. He wonders if Bucky ever went. 

He leans forward, and gently kisses Bucky on the cheek. Bucky’s eyes slip shut, and he takes a deep breath.  
“Guess you’re my family now,” He murmurs – Rikki’s a blood relation, sure, but he’s closer to Steve, and Sam, and Natasha. Maybe he can get to know Rikki properly, one day.  
“It’s a big family,” Steve says – Bucky knows he’s referring to the other Avengers. They’re all Steve has now, really.  
“I’m used to it,” Bucky says. He leans forward, this time, turning Steve’s face with his right hand, so they can kiss properly. It’s only a quick embrace, but it helps to relax Bucky. Something recent, and fresh, and _alive_ , amongst all of the nostalgia and the days missed; the lives unlived. Amongst all they’ve lost. 

When Bucky pulls away, Steve isn’t smiling; he looks content, though. He moves past Steve, making his way through to the small bathroom adjoining to the room. Steve lets out a deep sigh, closing the dresser’s draw, and taking one last look at the collection of memorabilia, before heading back downstairs. 

He searches through the house, until he finds Rikki: she’s standing beside the kitchen sink, holding a glass of water, staring out onto the crop field with an absent expression. He makes a lot of noise when he approaches her, like he would with Bucky, if he caught him staring into the middle-distance like this. He wouldn’t want her to break the glass; he wouldn't want to startle her, in any way. 

She moves suddenly, setting the glass down: she turns around at the sound of his footsteps, and smiles thinly: “How’d you like the room?”  
“You’ve got . . . An impressive collection. And I’ve seen some collections,” Steve says with a smile, recalling Agent Coulson’s attempts to get him to sign his various Captain America merchandise. He winces. 

"Yeah . . . Grandma was really into that. She always used to say she couldn’t believe it that you two were _superheroes_. And that you never came home,” She says, her smile faltering. “Guess you’re here now,” 

He pauses, for a moment, frowning – before asking, “Rikki – do you have a phone? It’s a long shot, but I want to try and reach Sam,” He says. When he sees her confused expression, he explains, “Wilson. Sam Wilson – the Falcon,”  
“Oh!” She says, before pointing him over to her landline. It’s attached by a chord to the wall; he nods his thanks, before taking up the handset, and typing in the number from memory. 

He assumes that Sam will have been – _arrested? Captured? Confronted by Rumlow?_ – by now, but if there’s even a _tiny_ bit of hope, he has to try and contact him. Given that his own mobile is gone, now, this is his last shot; he thanks Dr. Erskine, for about the millionth time in his life, for the serum and its enhancing effect on his memory. He knows the Avengers’ numbers off by heart – personal, work and home phones. 

He tries Sam’s personal phone: it rings, a couple of times, connecting right away. Rikki watches Steve, concerned, as he taps his fingers against the wall in agitation, hoping that Sam picks up – Sam, and not someone who’s taken his possessions. 

The ringing continues, and Steve closes his eyes, squeezing them shut in anticipation. Then, finally:  
“Who is this?”  
“Sam!” Steve says, delighted that he picked up. “Sam, it’s – it’s me, it’s Steve,” He explains quickly. He hears Rikki leave the kitchen, to give him some privacy – he shoots a quick smile back at her, in thanks.  
“Steve – just on time. I was about to throw this phone out – eyes everywhere. Listen, what the hell is going on?” Sam asks him, keeping his voice low. “Where are you?”  
“We got out. The base was compromised – the police, and Rumlow,” Steve explains quickly.  
“Rumlow?! That asshole’s _alive_?” Sam asks, sounding half surprised, half angry. Steve gets that.  
“Unfortunately – look, are you okay? We thought you would have been arrested by now,”  
“Well, I gave them the slip. Brought my wings with me, in case of trouble – I got to my Mom’s house, and there were police waiting for me there. Tried to take me in, as an accomplice to something or other. Helping to hide Barnes from the authorities, or something,” Sam says, sounding frustrated.  
“What? – but they only just put out the warrant!” Steve says in disbelief.  
“That’s what I said,” Sam agrees. “Anyway. They still wanted to bring me in – they wouldn’t say what was going on with you, and Barnes, and Tasha,” He continues. “My brother tried to fight them - they arrested him - and my _Mom_ – God, she was so mad. She told me to go, though. I just – upped and left. Fought my way out, and away from there. But Mom’s gonna kill me for the state of her front yard,” He adds with a sigh. 

Steve lets out a deep breath: he’s relieved, really, that Sam is okay. He doesn’t even want to consider the alternative – seeing him get arrested for something he didn’t do; for helping a friend. Or attacked, or tortured, or _worse_. 

“I’m glad you got out. I’m sorry about your brother,” Steve apologises.  
“It’s . . . Okay, man. He’ll fight anything that moves. Especially over family. Reminds me a lot of you, actually,” Sam points out. Steve can’t help but smile.  
“Where are you now?” Steve asks.  
“I’m, uh – on the roof of a taco bell,” He explains sheepishly. Steve smirks to himself. “It’s not all good news. Clint’s down – he got picked up about an hour ago, it’s all over the net. They raided his home. Probably scared the shit out of Laura and the kids,” He says, anger bubbling beneath his words as he recounts it.  
“Clint’s not even involved, he’s on leave!” Steve says angrily, raising his voice; he’s managed to land every single one of his friends in trouble, it seems.  
“Not to them. They’re trying to bring everyone in, I think – everyone except-”  
“Tony?” Steve says, his voice low; he bristles with anger, his fist clenched against the wall, nails digging into his palms.  
“You guessed it . . . Steve . . . Do you think it’s him that caused the leak?” Sam asks cautiously.  
“I don’t know,” Steve says, staring down at his feet.  
“Think about it – they’re not after him, he wants Barnes arrested. Hell, he’s wanted him gone for a long time,”  
“But how would he have gotten that extra information? – The stuff SHIELD didn’t know about?” He says, thinking about the files that, whoever leaked them, presumably came from Hydra. No one else could have known the particulars about Bucky’s torture; had written medical and psych files on the Winter Soldier. Tony’s smart, but Steve doubts he’d be able to access those. For one thing, the last Steve was aware, Hydra files were all hard copy: he’s come across thousands and thousands of paper files, raiding Hydra bases, in every country SHIELD received intelligence they were working in. The thickest files were in the US – but Steve doesn’t doubt that they missed some files; maybe some bases, too. Someone, somewhere, still has hard-copy files. Or knows the details of Bucky’s torture from personal experience. 

“He’d have needed a contact. Hydra, or Ex-Hydra, or something,” Steve thinks aloud, pushing his anger down inside, for now.  
“It’s – not a completely wild idea,” Sam says. “We already know he’s got some dodgy contacts, from his time in the arms trade. Remember that Ulysses guy?” Sam says.  
“I’d rather not,” Steve replies. “. . . Makes sense. Tony strikes a deal, to – what? Smear the Avengers?”  
“Barnes, mostly. I’ve been sitting on this roof a while, and maybe it’s the fumes from the food, but I’m starting to think it makes sense. Get rid of Bucky, knock some of the other Avengers down a peg – Tony comes out of it smelling like roses, and reinstates himself as leader of the Avengers. Hell, he probably thinks he’ll get you back, too, once Bucky’s gotten rid of,” Sam postulates.  
“I didn’t know you were so politically minded,” Steve admits.  
“Yeah, well. I’m a soldier. I know strategy. And Tony’s got one,” Sam says, sounding sure. 

Steve sighs, his fist unclenching, and his palm pressing flat into the wall. He doesn’t want to accept that Tony’s engineered this – with or without help – but if he has, Steve won’t forgive him. _Especially_ if he’s working with someone connected with Hydra. 

“. . . Alright. I’ll discuss it with Nat. See what she thinks,” Steve says finally. “Do you think you’ll be able to find us? – I wouldn’t blame you for lying low someplace else,” Steve assures him. After all, Sam has to look out for himself, too: he’s on the run from the law, now, like the rest of them. Steve wouldn’t want to drag him back into harm’s way if it ever comes to that.  
“I’ll be there as soon as I can – depending on where you are, obviously,” He adds, a note of humour in his voice.  
“Kansas. Hope your wings have GPS,” Steve says, smirking.  
“Weirdly, they do,” Sam says, sounding slightly perturbed, never having thought he’d have to use that feature, really. “I’ll probably drive most of the way, though. Save on fuel . . . I’m not leaving you guys to fight this on your own, Steve,” He adds.  
“Thank you, Sam,” Steve says – it’s heartfelt, and Sam knows he isn’t just thanking him for his support this time around, but for all the times he’s gone out of his way to back Steve up – Steve, not Captain America. Steve doesn’t know what he’d do without him. 

“Alright. What’s the address, then?” 

\- 

Later on, when Natasha’s arrived at the house, Steve brings up Sam’s theory that Tony made the leak, to a room of spies and soldiers. They look at one another in silence, considering it for a few moments.  
“. . . It checks out. Tony’s definitely got an agenda, here,” Natasha says, folding her arms. She hasn’t sat down, yet. She doesn’t seem as comfortable here as she does in Clint’s farmhouse. Not yet, anyway. 

She was angry, when she found out that Clint had been arrested; that they’d tried to do the same to Sam who, presumably, will be with them in a while. She has an air of quiet anger about her, even now – the kind Steve knows will only be let out when she gets to beat the crap out of someone. He knows the feeling. He really wants to punch something, over this.  
“Do we really think he’d do this to you?” Bucky asks Steve quietly, his voice far away; he leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped together. Rikki watches his prosthetic hand, like she usually does – a look almost like longing, Steve realises. If only she could have something like Bucky has, for her missing limbs.  
“He’d do it to _you_ ,” Natasha tells Bucky, not having any qualms about doing so. “He wants control of the team. He thinks you’re standing in the way – distracting Steve. He thinks you killed his parents. He wants you gone, but the rest of us don’t support him. So, he finds some new friends,” Natasha suggests bluntly.  
“Including Rumlow,” Bucky adds darkly. Natasha nods.  
“Fits with the theory that he’s working with someone with Hydra connections. Send Rumlow in for Bucky, to subdue him – make him easier for the police to take in. Almost fool proof,” She thinks aloud. “. . . Almost,” 

Steve folds his arms, and shakes his head.  
“You don’t believe me?” Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow as she stares at him.  
“No – I mean, yes, I believe you, I just – I was starting to believe in this team. Believe that we were more than in-fighting and taking sides. It’s . . . Tough, to find out I was wrong,”  
“The Vision had the right idea. You should all stay as far away from me as possible,” Bucky says, his attempt at humour falling flat.  
“They weren’t getting shot of you. They just didn’t want to be involved. They couldn’t afford it – considering they were made by Ultron. Imagine what the media would do if they saw them, knowing what they know about them, now,” Natasha says. 

“I do cause a lot of trouble though,” Bucky adds. His voice is more serious, now. “Face it. This could all have been avoided if you just handed me over. Who knows? – I might be acquitted,” He says. He clearly doesn’t believe that, though.  
“We’re not going to abandon you, Buck,” Steve insists.  
“Maybe you should. Rumlow – said he wouldn’t stop until you were dead, Steve. He doesn’t care about the others, he’d kill them in a second, too. I’m not a special case, because I’m your – your _friend_. I’m not worth-” 

He swallows, stopping short of finishing that sentence, eyes wide, as he realises he’s slipping. But Steve makes eye contact with him, and his expression lets Bucky know that _yes_ , he does know how that was about to end. And _no_ , he doesn’t agree. 

“You’re worth it, Buck,” Steve says, fists clenching, where they’re tucked under his arms.  
“Worth dying over? – C’mon, Stevie, I’m supposed to be dead already,” Bucky says. “If it’s either you or me, I want it to be you that survives,”  
“It’s not just you! This whole thing – it’s blaming you, the victim, for Hydra’s actions. You weren’t responsible, you shouldn’t be culpable, and you _shouldn’t_ be getting arrested,” Steve insists. “They’re working with Hydra – your abusers, and a terrorist organisation. Guys like Rumlow. There’s not a chance in hell that I’m giving up fighting them. Especially when I’m fighting for you,” 

Steve’s breathing is harsh: his eye contact with Bucky is fierce and intense, where he stares down at him, frozen in position where he sits on the couch. Natasha, beside him, looks between the two of them, not wanting to intervene. 

“. . . It’s not just you,” Rikki says, in a small voice, drawing both of the super-soldiers’ attentions by breaking the charged silence. “I grew up inspired by you. All of you, but – especially my great uncle. I’ve dined out on the story of being a Barnes my whole life,” She says, with a sad smile. “. . . If you let these guys tear you down, your legacy goes with you. The same one I was thinking about in Afghanistan – the one I was thinking about in the hospital,” She explains. “You never gave up, even after you got tortured by Nazis. So neither did I, after-” She pauses for a second, stopping short, before continuing, “. . . Please, don’t let them win, this time,”  
She looks down at her hands, much the same as Bucky was, previously. She looks a little reserved, for now, like she’s overstepped the mark. 

Bucky stands, then: he pauses, staring down at Rikki for a second, before looking back to Steve. He looks like he might say something, for a moment - but he falters, and bites his lip. In the end, he just nods in silent agreement, before leaving the room, excusing himself to go upstairs. The other three watch him go silently, listening as the bedroom door shuts behind him. They don’t hear any further footstep sounds. 

“How can I make him see he’s worth it?” Steve asks no one in particular, hands dropping to his hips, as he stares out of the window and onto the field, shrouded in the darkness of dusk, now. He searches the crops for answers, for a few silent seconds.  
“He’s got to realise it for himself. Believe me,” Rikki says. Steve glances over to her, recalling her file – _PTSD. Depression_. Yes, she would know. But Bucky’s been through such a prolonged period of torture – by Hydra, by himself, by God knows who else – he doesn’t know if she can possibly understand. Perhaps she can a little though. So he nods. 

“Where can I stay tonight?” Natasha asks Rikki with a pleasant smile, reducing the tension with just a few words. Rikki, a little startled by the change in pace of the conversation, offers to show her to her next best guest room right away. Steve can easily tell she’s a fan of Natasha’s, too. 

They leave Steve alone in the room, with the great ticking grandfather clock, and the family portraits on the walls, staring down at him. He pays no heed to them, largely unseeing, as he wonders what his team are going to do to fight this – both the authorities breathing down their necks, and Bucky’s doubts about whether or not he deserves his friends’ help at all. 

\- 

Bucky rests that night on his back: his eyes stare up at the ceiling, unblinking, as he considers what could have been; what might have happened, the previous day. He stays very still, in wakefulness and disturbed sleep, not wanting to wake Steve, who sleeps on his side, facing him, forehead actually pressed up to the blue and white star pattern on Bucky’s metal arm. It’s nice and cool, Bucky guesses. He’s not aware he’s doing it; he’ll probably have the pattern of adjoining plates pressed into the skin of his face, when he wakes. Bucky smiles at the thought, despite himself, as he looks down at Steve’s head; his shock of messy hair. 

He gazes back up at the ceiling; at the vintage Captain America and Bucky clock, on the dresser, that tells him it’s just gone 5 am now. He and Steve didn’t talk much last night, before they went to sleep. Bucky didn’t feel up to it. He promised they’d talk the next day, though – he’s not the only one who needs it. 

He sighs as quietly as he can manage, his flesh hand clenching and unclenching restlessly, unbidden. He wills it to stop, but it won’t. He’s not moving any other part of his body, so his frustration’s got to go somewhere. 

The curtains are quite ineffective: because it’s summer time, it’s an early dawn, and the white sunlight is creeping through the thin material. He can sleep in any light, usually, but he’s simply too preoccupied to try. 

The thing is that Rumlow came so close. He was in the base, he was in Franklin’s office – somewhere Bucky usually feels safe. What if he’d decided to bypass the idea of passing as Bucky’s therapist – what if he’d come a little earlier, and managed to get into their apartment? 

Bucky closes his eyes against the thought: but it’s there, now, sitting at the forefront of his mind; changing, evolving. Rumlow already managed to infiltrate the base, he probably could have gotten past further security measures, and into their apartment. There – there, he could have taken a knife. They’re in the kitchen, they’re not even locked away, anymore, like he requested when he was first living with Steve. They’re just in the draw – that is, if Rumlow didn’t already have his own – he could have been _oh so quiet_ , finding his way to their bedroom. Standing there, looming over them, he could have gotten away with – he could have leaned over, could have put the knife to Steve’s neck, could have woken Bucky up _just in time to see-_

He flinches, his whole body twitching. His metal-clad shoulder nudges into Steve’s face, waking him with a start: his eyes are open and wide within seconds, and he sits up abruptly, looking down at Bucky and surveying him for any problems; he casts his gaze around the room, seeking out what's wrong. 

“Nightmare,” Bucky lies. 

Steve frowns down at him – usually he’s a very still sleeper. He thinks it's muscle memory, or something like that, from stasis. He doesn’t even flinch, usually. And yet that’s what woke Steve up. 

“. . . Actually, I was remembering what happened yesterday. With Rumlow,” Bucky admits, after a couple of seconds. He might as well come clean.  
“Oh,” Steve says, lowering himself back down onto the bed. He sits up on his elbow, though, staring down at Bucky, who brings his arms up, folding them across his chest. After a moment or two of watching Bucky stare down at his arms, he softly asks, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Bucky takes a deep breath; lets it out slowly, from his nose.  
“I thought he – he looked like Franklin. I started talking. He listened. It wasn’t that different from normal. He was a bit more – blunt, though,” Bucky explains quietly. Steve bites his lip, and nods, retrospectively feeling queasy, for Bucky. 

Bucky turns over to face Steve, one hand between his head and the pillow, before he continues: he stares down at Steve’s chest, not looking into his eyes, as he continues:  
“He said I deserved to be in prison. I . . . You know I trust Franklin,” Bucky reminds Steve. He nods – trust is essential, in therapy. That goes for everyone, but Bucky in particular, given his track record.  
“I can hear it in his voice. Him telling me I’m a m-” He clears his throat, frowning a little. “A monster. That I should be able to remember that, by now,”  
“You’re not,” Steve says softly. Bucky sighs, taking a few moments to hold himself together, for the next part of the story.  
“He set off one of my triggers,” Bucky says, briefly signing the individual letters of the word _cradle_ , so Steve understands.  
“I thought Wanda got rid of them?” Steve says, shocked.  
“She did – it had a residual effect. I was only paralysed for a minute, and I was aware, I was – conscious, when he was talking to me. Touching my face,” Bucky explains, sounding harrowed.  
“Bucky,” Steve murmurs in sympathy.  
“Don’t like being touched, anyway – except by you,” Bucky says with a half-smile, looking up and into Steve’s eyes. “He thought I was frozen. Tried to touch me again, so I hit him. I kept on fighting and hitting til he stopped,” Bucky recounts. The whole thing is a bit of a blur. Gone are the days when he was expected to recount every fight blow-for-blow for some superior, or other. 

So he tries to forget the detail. He tries to forget the feeling of Rumlow on top of him, his weight bearing down, his scarred, smirking face a blur amongst the violence and the blood. Pressing down, confining, _restraining_. And the handcuffs. 

He licks his lips, and tries to ask Steve to touch him. The words die in his throat – Steve frowns, knowing he was going to say something. Bucky cautiously takes one of Steve's hands, and places it on the back of his head. So Steve pulls him forward, kissing him; fingers threading into Bucky’s hair, stroking, pulling ever so slightly, just the right amount to remind Bucky he’s there. Bucky’s glad that Steve sometimes doesn’t have a lot of finesse, these days. 

Bucky kisses back – in between kisses, Steve tells him, “Won’t let it happen again. You won’t let it. Neither will I,” Bucky nods, knowing he needs to hear it, to back up what his rational mind is telling him. It can be drowned out by loud, brash panic way too easily, he’s found. 

“We’re not gonna let him touch you,” Steve says, pressing his forehead to Bucky’s. Bucky responds by moving closer; Steve rolls over so he’s on his back, and Bucky slumps on top of his chest. He swallows down the soft sound Steve makes at the gentle impact of it; his left hand finds Steve’s right, the one not still playing with his hair, and pushes it down onto the bed. 

He’s not pinned. Neither is Steve – well, maybe a _little_. But Bucky feels better, being in control, even minutely, right now. 

Steve stares up at him, fingers still teasing locks of hair: he watches as Bucky’s eyes slip closed, just savouring the intimacy of the position they’re in; knowing that touching, lying down, are not things to be feared. They can still be good. There’s no danger, here. Not when he’s in control; not when he’s with Steve. 

He leans down to kiss Steve again, gently moving in time with him; Steve follows Bucky’s leave, even breathing in time with him. Steve knows he needs comfort: his own needs are the same, right now – after all, Rumlow was dangerously close to really hurting Bucky, and taking him away. It’s nice to be reminded that Bucky is here, the physical weight of Bucky on top of him helping to cast his anxious, uncertain dreams away. He’s not out of Steve’s grasp, and he’s not being dragged away. He’s right here, right with him, at least for now: skin on skin contact; skin on metal on skin. It’s all real. 

Tomorrow is tomorrow. They can figure this out, between them. 

It’s a long, long time before they hear a noise outside: both of their heads move in synchrony towards the window, but the view is blocked by the curtains. Bucky moves into position immediately, climbing off of Steve and landing lightly on the balls of his feet on the floorboards; he stoops to pick up a pistol from the floor under the bed, and makes his way quickly to the window, holding it aloft. He makes eye contact with Steve, who’s sitting up now, for a second, before taking a slight peek out of the window. Steve holds his breath, observing Bucky’s tense posture, as he seeks out a source for the noise. 

He’s relieved when he sees Bucky lower his gun, his posture relaxing to its usual admittedly-tense norm. He pulls back the curtain a little, staring down at the ground; he opens the window a crack.  
“Nice pyjamas, man,” A voice calls from below. Bucky smiles, slightly embarrassed, because he isn’t wearing any. At least the windowsill is high. 

“Sam,” Steve says, relaxing fully, and slipping back down onto the bed, as he recognises his friend’s voice.  
“He made it,” Bucky says, relieved as well. He turns away from the window, scratching the back of his head with his flesh hand, and restoring the safety on the pistol with his left. Steve stares at him, standing there in his boxers, with a gun in his hand, hair messy from Steve’s own hands – and he just can’t stop staring. 

“What?” Bucky asks, frowning slightly, staying where he is.  
“Nothing,” Steve says, remembering how dismissive Bucky gets when he gets sweet on him.  
“You look like the cat who got the cream,” Bucky says with a raised eyebrow, making his way over to the bed again.  
“. . . Kinda,” Steve says. “Just, you. In your boxers. With a gun,”  
“Not really a common situation,” Bucky admits, stowing the gun back under the bed.  
“It’s not that – you just . . . You look good, Buck,”  
“I look like a mess,” Bucky says, straightening up, and putting his hands on his hips. Steve follows the course of his fingers with his eyes: how they sit on his Apollo’s belt, contacting the waistband of his boxers. “. . . Looks like you like the view, though,” He adds, smirking – an expression Steve knows _very_ well.  
“Says the one who’s been getting hot and heavy with me for an hour now,” Steve points out. Bucky shrugs.  
“Like being in control, sometimes. Don’t get a lot of that,” Bucky points out. 

Steve pauses, before he says what he _really_ meant, for all the impact it might have.  
“You look beautiful, actually,” He says honestly, looking up and into Bucky eyes, as he sits up properly again, leaning back on his hands.  
“Look who’s talking,” Bucky says – for one of the first times, rather than dismissing the compliment with talk of scars, or making a glib comment, he’s acknowledged what Steve said. Steve blushes. 

“. . . We should let him in. Rikki will wonder who’s at the door,” Bucky says, making his way to his bag to retrieve some clothes.  
“Honestly – I think she’s a big fan, Buck,” He says. “She knows who he is. She’ll probably want to get to know him a bit,” Steve reasons. Bucky turns back to him, an uncanny expression something like _mischief_ in his eyes. Simultaneously alien, to this Bucky, and familiar to a previous version. 

"You trying to get me to come back to bed, Rogers?” Bucky asks, with a raised eyebrow.  
“. . . It’s only 6 am,” Steve tells him. Bucky folds his arms; Steve just pats the bed beside him. 

Bucky gives in pretty easy, for once. 

\- 

When the four of them are reunited, they turn their attention to what they should do next. 

“So we’re sure it’s Tony that’s the leak?” Bucky asks, sitting very still, leaning back in his chair, with his left hand palm-down on the table. He’s placed his pistol in front of him, as if presenting it to Steve, who sits opposite to him at the dining table. Sitting at the head of the table, looking between them, is Rikki. She wasn’t sure she was allowed to sit in on Avengers business, but Steve beckoned her in, anyway, figuring that she’s their ally, now. 

“Positive. Sam’s theory checks out. Even if he smells kind of like tacos,” Natasha says, smirking at Sam. He rolls his eyes.  
“I’ll have a shower, after this – if that’s okay with you,” He requests, looking to Rikki. She nods quickly. It’s no secret that the Falcon is her favourite Avenger, of the ones all on the roster that don’t have a direct connection to her family. 

“What’s next?” She asks, looking to Steve. He pauses, for a moment.  
“We need to confront him. Find out if it’s true or not,”  
“Don’t you think he’ll lie?” She asks, raising an eyebrow.  
“He’s not as good at it as you are, Romanoff,” Steve points out. She looks flattered. “And besides – I don’t think he’s ashamed. He’s probably pretty pleased with himself,” Steve remarks wistfully. Bucky purses his lips. 

“So how do we do that?” Sam asks, leaning forward on the table, and clasping his hands together. Bucky watches him from the corner of his eye, still not moving at all.  
“We take the fight to him. Smart money says he’s in Malibu – the jet had other planes’ flight plans from the base mapped out,” Natasha points out.  
“He’ll be there. That’s his best lab, bar the Avengers one,” Steve says, sounding certain.  
“I don’t think he’s going to want to show his face, there, after what he unleashed on the staff. Police smashed that place up good, from what I’ve seen,” Sam points out. He’s seen a lot more news than the rest of them – there hasn’t been too much sitting around, just yet, or time to catch up. 

“We’ve just got us four,” Sam says, looking between all of them: Natasha, their best pilot, and stealth agent; Steve, who looks shaken, but angry – a dangerous combination, by anyone’s standards; Bucky, almost unnervingly still, but Sam knows that just means he’s in battle mode. 

He turns to Rikki. “Unless you want to help out in some field work?”  
She lets out a nervous laugh. “No, sir. Haven’t got the prostheses for that, and I – it’s gonna be a while before I want to try and get my ass shot off, again,” She tells him. He smiles, empathising with her, on that one. He certainly didn’t want to rush back into combat, after what happened to Riley. He can’t imagine his loss incarnate, limiting his movement, at all. Not in the physical sense, anyway. An emotional blow like losing a partner can just as well rob you of your motivation, and your will to keep fighting. The result is the same. 

“Four Avengers is all we need,” Steve says. “How do we get past his security? – He has to have that place on lockdown. We only need to get in to talk to him, but the place is probably going to be crawling with police – and defences given to him by whoever he’s working with, too,” Steve reasons.  
“I have the shape-shifting technology with me – the mask can make me look like anyone. Pepper?” Natasha asks.  
“No. Tony and Pepper haven’t been seeing much of each other, lately. He mentioned once or twice,” Sam says. The Steve looks at him, surprised – he adds, “People tend to open up to me. They forget I’m a counsellor, not a therapist. And that I’m not _their_ counsellor,” 

“Can you get in, if we disable the security measures?” Bucky asks, staring down at his metal arm.  
“. . . If we land the jet a little while away – you could get us onto the roof, Sam. We could take out the guards,” Natasha says, looking at Bucky curiously, wondering what he’s getting at. 

He makes eye contact with her for a few seconds, remaining still; he smirks, and looks back down at his faintly-glowing arm.  
“I have a plan," 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, second chapter this week, well done @ me for actually making it happen. 
> 
> Anyways. Happy birthday Sebastian Stan and I Am Sorry is all I can say about this. More on Monday - enjoy!!

“. . . Detainment of the SHIELD Agent and Avenger colloquially known as Hawkeye shocked the nation yesterday. Clinton F. Barton was arrested at his family home in Iowa in the early hours, thought to be part of a conspiracy to keep the controversial quote ‘shadow Avenger’ Sergeant James Barnes from justice,” 

Tony smooths his fingers over the bleeding areas of his palms: each finger, and each major muscle group, now has a tiny sensor within it that his suits can use to fly to him at any given moment. The more of them there are, the more precise the tracking system can be: and besides, these ones have fewer technical weaknesses than the ones for the mk. 42 armour. He’s had to make sure. 

“That’s right Bob. The Hawk is down. And really, you gotta ask – why do we have these _shadow Avengers_ anyway? – It seems to me that there might be more of them, that we don’t know about. Hell, anyone could be defending our country – or not. What if the Avengers currently on the roster decide to give another war criminal a pass? Spend our taxes - which they deny taking - on their rehabilitation? Invite them into bed with them – literally?” 

Tony winces, hearing that: Fox news are never sensitive, but they’re really hanging Bucky out to dry. Steve, too. 

“It’s unacceptable, really. To think that this man – Steve Rogers – was supposedly trying to uphold traditional American values for traditional American families this whole time, but now we find out that he’s gay? – Not very patriotic of him, to go on like that,” 

Tony wipes up the last of the blood from his hands, and throws the wipe into the trashcan: it misses. He hangs his head, his shoulders growing limp, but inevitably gets up to put it in the trash, anyway. He’s trying to stay on Pepper’s good side. Not that she comes downstairs to visit him, anymore. The lab is huge – much bigger than in his old home – and he’d certainly hear her coming. 

“It’s not only that, Glenn – it's the choice of people he hangs around with. The Winter Soldier – a murderer, a war criminal – The Black Widow, a woman with no morals, who chooses to flout her figure wherever she can – and the _Falcon_ , who resisted arrest, today. I gotta say, Glenn, this guy – how can we trust him? He could have hurt our hard-working cops. I think a few of them needed stitches – is that right?”  
“Right. Wilson supposedly has no criminal record, but considering the fact that Rogers has been lying to us about his morals this whole time, covering it up – who’s to say he hasn’t hushed up a criminal record, or two?” 

Tony huffs.  
“Turn it off,” He says, straightening up from cleaning up the trash. Friday obliges. 

The lights drop completely: he’s left in pitch black. He sighs, rubbing his brow in annoyance. He’s been messing with Friday’s _humour circuits_ , today, so it’s not surprising that she’s glitching a little.  
“No, not the lights, too – just the TV,” Tony says, annoyed. 

Friday doesn’t reply. 

“Fri?” He asks, frowning and looking around. But the lights don’t come on, and he’s left in the dark, and alone. She’s not responding to him. 

Suddenly, low lights flicker into life: all around the edge of the floor, dim white LED lights illuminate the large room meagrely, lighting him from below.  
“Great,” He mutters: the emergency back-up generator, powered by a small lead-lined arc reactor somewhere underneath the indoor pool, is on. There’s been a power cut. 

He looks all around him: he hears no one coming, or any assurances from the police or Zemo's extra security within his house, that everything is fine – he doesn’t even hear complaining from them; Pepper isn't in the house to witness what's going on. He supposes she’s probably gone to bed, at this hour, anyway. She works a normal working day, now that she’s less involved in his life than usual, and working elsewhere. He used to throw a spanner in the works, with that. 

He sits himself down heavily at his desk, and hits the spacebar on one of his old-school laptops: one with a keyboard, that has its own battery. He pauses, expecting it to load – but it doesn’t. He hits the space-bar a couple more times. 

When nothing happens, he feels a cool sensation run down his spine: something’s taken out all his electrical equipment. Something’s fried it all. This is deliberate. It must be. 

“An EMP,” He murmurs to himself. 

“Gold star,” 

He spins around in his chair suddenly, looking for the source of the words: he recognises the voice of Sam Wilson, who is standing there by his desk, hands resting on his hips; he’s accompanied by Steve, who stands in the middle, arms crossed; to one side Natasha holds a gun to him. He raises his hands. 

“This is just for safety. No one’s coming for you,” She says coolly.  
“There’s a lot of men out there. Police,” Tony points out. She smirks.  
“Do you really think they can stop us?” She asks. Tony concedes the point; his gaze wanders to Steve, whose face is stormy, and whose gaze pins him down in his chair. He’s unmoving, and extremely angry. 

“I see Barnes got the hang of the EMP,” Tony says, folding his arms, too. “Where is your boyfriend, anyway, Steve?”  
“Shut the fuck up,” Steve murmurs – the fact it’s quiet is somehow a lot more intimidating than if he’d roared it. For once, Tony listens: he swallows, and pauses, for a moment, before continuing again on a different topic. 

“To what do I owe this visit? – Come to whine at me about how I haven’t been arrested yet?” He asks Steve specifically, as he lowers his hands nonchalantly. “Because I covered my ass. Of course they’re not gonna come for me,” He points out.  
“You threw us under the bus to do that, Tony,” Sam points out.  
“I’m sorry if that’s not cool, or something. I’ve got a life to live. I was only telling the truth,” Tony points out.  
“And we haven’t?” Sam asks angrily.  
“Steve threatened you with legal action, if you told about Bucky? - _Really_ , Tony?” Natasha asks, shaking her head in disgust and disbelief. 

Tony shrugs. “If he had a better lawyer, he would’ve,” Tony comments.  
“Yeah, this is most definitely _uncool_ ,” Sam says derisively. 

“You made the leak,” Steve says, his voice even. “Don’t try and deny it,” 

Tony looks him in the eye, for a long moment: eventually, though he feels a little like he's on the back foot, he replies brazenly -  
“Sure I did. People deserve to know everything about the Winter Soldier that you won’t tell them,” 

Sam makes a noise of disgust. “You put my whole family in danger over this! – They tried to arrest me!” He says.  
“All my safe houses. Gone, Tony. And Clint’s in jail,” Natasha says – and she sounds disappointed, but unsurprised. The resignation is hard to hear, even for Tony. She knew he did it already.  
“I never meant to get you arrested. That wasn’t part of the plan,” Tony tries to assure Natasha and Sam, pointedly directing the sentiment away from Steve. “I didn’t realise. I regret getting you into trouble, but you should have just gone quietly, and explained, instead. I could have smoothed things over,”  
“Sorry,” Sam says bitingly. “We don’t sell our friends out,” 

Tony snorts quietly. He shakes his head, closing his eyes and smiling in cold disbelief. He knows he’s right – he’s the only one who can see it – but they’re too blinded by whatever hold Steve and Bucky have on them, and misguided loyalty, to see it. 

“If you guys would have just handed him in to the police in the first place – hell, if you could have thought rationally about the guy, you’d know he’s mentally unstable. He’s crazy! I can’t believe I’m the only one who can see that!” Tony stresses. “The guy’s a time-bomb. It’s only so long before he goes off and kills one of you. And _you’ve_ been getting him therapy, while he really needs to be on lockdown,” Tony says to Steve. 

“It doesn’t matter what I did,” Steve says. “Because I chose to be happy with Bucky, and for him to be happy with me, as well as being on the team. But you couldn’t let that stand,” Steve says, his voice unnervingly even.  
“He’s a murderer. He tried to kill you, more than once, Steve. I couldn’t let you carry on like that. You’ll see, one day. It’s for your own good,” Tony says dismissively. 

Sam snorts quietly. “You really are a piece of work,” 

“Who’s your contact? – Rumlow?” Natasha asks, gun still held steadily aloft.  
“Never heard of him. What exactly are you getting at?” Tony asks, with an extended blink as if this is doing little more than try his patience.  
“Hydra. You must be working with them. Who’s your Hydra contact?” She insists.  
“. . . Look, this isn’t exactly something that helps me sleep at night, but I’m not working with _Hydra_ ,” He says, throwing his arms up defensively.  
“You didn’t do this alone, Tony – who’s helping you?” Sam asks taking a step forward. Tony eyes him warily.  
“This was my decision!” Tony insists.  
“Who,” Steve says, taking a bigger step forward, towering over Tony, leaning over him. Tony can see, from his low down position, that there’s fire in his eyes: even in the low light, casting shadows all over his face, anger and betrayal are clear in every line of his features. “Who are you working with?” 

“. . . I had some _support_. A senator,” Tony mentions, finally.  
“Which one?” Steve asks, keeping his voice low.  
“Zemo. Alright? That what you wanted to hear?” Tony asks, folding his arms. Steve doesn’t move.  
“What’s in this for him?” Natasha asks curiously.  
“More stable America. End to the SHIELD fiasco, and Ultron. It’s good for _all_ of us, okay? I’m not just doing it for my own health,” Tony snipes.  
“He gave you the information?” Natasha asks, wanting it confirmed.  
“Yes. He’s got friends in low places,” Tony says, slightly defensively. 

Natasha turns her head to Sam.  
“He must be Hydra,”  
“I’ve never heard of him,” Sam says, shifting. “Not til now. Are we sure he’s legit?” 

Tony laughs. “I’ve been to his office, in DC. Believe me, he’s real. And he wants T-1000 to stand for his crimes,” He points out. “Same as any patriotic American. Same as all of you should,” He says.  
“That’s enough,” Sam warns, his eyes lingering on Steve: his breaths are heaving, and he’s almost quivering with rage. 

“What? – You don’t see it? You brought him on the AIM mission. Hell, I know he’s here, somewhere, if he used the EMP I gave him, out of charity. Do you really think it’s safe?” He asks, slowly standing so he’s toe-to-toe with Steve. “You brought him here – hell, you probably armed him – when he should be on lockdown in a psych ward. Therapy isn’t enough for a guy like that. I’ve seen footage of him attacking his Hydra handlers – _killing_ some of them. What if he decides you’re next? – Would kinda spice things up in the bedroom, wouldn’t it?” 

Sam and Natasha almost can’t believe it when it happens: Steve punches Tony square in the face, causing him to stumble back slightly into his desk, throwing a haphazard swing back at Steve a second later, clocking him on the cheek. 

Steve tastes blood, but he doesn’t care: his eyes are dark, full of rage, and he wants to lash out at Tony again, to carry on fighting – he wants to get him to reverse everything he’s done, but it’s too late. The damage is done, and there’s nothing he can do, except watch Tony wipe away the blood from under his nose. 

“And here I was thinking you were the good guy, Rogers,” Tony says, standing up straight, hand snaking back on the desk. “Turns out you’re a bully, like everyone you’ve hated,"  
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Steve growls. Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, holding him back; helping him resist the urge to get into it with Tony some more. He shouldn’t lower himself to that level. 

“Yeah, well – neither do you,” Tony says. “You shouldn’t have come here,” 

Natasha catches his arm dart back, going for something on his desk – she realises there’s a glove, on the desk, black in colour so hard to see in the very low light.  
“Steve-!” She says, but it’s too late: Tony whips his arm around, slotting the glove on in a second, and blasting Steve across the room. He aims at Sam, who dives out of the way; Natasha gets a couple of shots off, but she misses the mark in the darkness, and she ducks for cover. 

Tony shoots for where Sam is crouching, and he rolls out of the way, minding his wing pack on his back, towards where Steve is. He drags him towards the cover of the couch beside where he landed, and out of the line of fire. He can hear Natasha firing her gun, as he looks down at Steve. 

His eyes are glazed over, and he moves sluggishly, frowning, and trying to get up and to his feet.  
“Keep down!” Sam hisses to him, in the silence between shots. Steve reaches for his shield, shaking his head clear, and pulling it from his back, after Sam has helped him into a crouching position. Sam knows he bounces back quickly – even from a direct blow to his solar plexus, and hitting his head on the floor. It’s just as well he was wearing his uniform, which is reinforced in the abdominal region, or he could be _seriously_ hurt. 

After a couple of seconds to gather himself, he waits for a gap between fire, and shoots up, throwing his shield at Tony: it hits its mark, sending Tony skittering across the lab on his ass and into a wall, causing equipment he contacts to scatter across the room. The shield bounces back, and Steve makes a grab for it. 

“We need to go now!” Sam calls to Natasha, who pops up from behind a steel bench.  
“Bucky – come in. We need evac, Stark has part of a suit that survived the EMP,” Steve says, touching his finger to his comms device.  
“10:4,” Bucky’s voice crackles in immediately over their frequency. He’s probably been sitting there, listening to the entire exchange, tense like a tightly-coiled spring. He knew it was best to stay back, lest he be caught by Tony’s multitude of security – even with the bulk of them taken out by Steve, Sam and Nat – and arrested. 

The three of them move out, leaving via the doorway: the corridor outside is lined at floor-level by small white LED lights, running on back-up power that wasn’t on when the EMP struck. The visibility is very poor, as Steve leads the way out, to the sound of Sam running behind him, and Natasha firing her gun, bringing up the rear. Steve squints to see the end of the corridor – _just ten more metres-_

“Get down!” Natasha yells, and all three of them drop – just as a shot from a repulsor beam hits the wall at the end of the corridor, causing concrete to go flying towards them. Steve covers his face, hoping he’s blocking the others. He can hear shambling footsteps approaching him – Tony’s, weighed down on one side by the single glove – he goes to get up, when he sees a silhouette in the cloudy, ill-lit darkness. 

“Stay down,” The silhouette growls. “Get moving,” 

There are flashes of light, as the figure shoots; he ducks around the corner, avoiding return fire from Tony behind them, as Steve, Sam and Natasha hustle their way through the rubble. As Steve gets closer to the end of the corridor, he can see Bucky, uniform pulled up over his mouth to prevent him from breathing in the dust, and goggles in place to provide better visibility in the now almost complete darkness. The lights keep being smashed and blown out. 

Steve reaches the end of the corridor, taking cover behind the opposite wall to Bucky, before pulling Sam, and then Natasha, out of the line of fire. Steve glances over to Bucky as he takes cover: things go quiet, for a second, as Steve supposes Bucky meets his eye – it’s hard to tell with his goggles. He drops the clip from his pistol, not having any bullets left. 

Steve throws him his pistol; he catches it seamlessly, and fires around the corner. The footsteps cease, as Tony reconsiders following them into the blind ending. 

Steve signs quickly to Bucky: _move out. Cover us_. Bucky nods: this is his forte. It always has been – even with the train. The fluid way he and Bucky worked, right before Bucky saved his life, still haunts Steve’s dreams: incredible, totally natural, yet at a price too high to pay, in that instance. 

As Natasha and Sam make their way past Steve and into the next part of the house, making their planned extraction, Steve brings up their rear – until he hears a shout of pain. His soldier’s instincts tell him to keep running, no matter what – but as a human being, as a man, he knows he can’t just run. He turns back, shielding his eyes: and sees Bucky running towards him, pistol held downwards for safety, as he hurtles towards Steve. 

“You okay?” Steve grits out hurriedly, as he runs alongside him, hoping to catch the others.  
“Fine. Stark got hit. Shoulder. Not covered by the armour,” Bucky grunts.  
“Right,” Steve acknowledges, pulling his shield from his back, and pressing his free left hand to his comms device, “-Sam, get Natasha out via the roof. Bucky and I will chance the security for a stealth extraction to the-”

But when they get to the next room – the lobby of the house, which should rightly be teaming with guards – he finds it very dimly lit, and covered in bodies. 

He gazes around, gawping slightly – Bucky pauses too, looking around furtively, movements jerking and efficient. Steve turns to him for an explanation.  
“. . . I was bored waiting. I could hear what Stark was saying. Wanted to kick his ass,”  
“That wasn’t smart,” Steve says, shaking his head. Bucky shifts – he pulls the neck of his costume down and off of his face, revealing lips pressed into an uncomfortable line.  
“Like you’ve ever followed a plan to the letter,” Bucky says sarcastically. Steve huffs slightly. “. . . I’m used to working as a solitary unit. Figured it couldn’t be that easy to take out Stark’s tech. Wanted to take out the human security. Make escaping easier,” Bucky says.  
“Take out?” Steve asks.  
“They’re all alive. But someone’s probably heard the noise by now. Let’s go,” Bucky says, heading for an open glass door: from there, Steve can see the gate of the wall around the house, which is usually key-code protected and electrified, has been bust wide open.  
“. . . Alright. Thank you,” Steve says, though he’s obviously still not wild about the idea of Bucky endangering himself unnecessarily, given that he’s the one the authorities are after. 

“Don’t sweat it,” Bucky says. They hear a crash from down the corridor – and automatically fall into action, Bucky taking the lead, and Steve following behind him, brandishing his shield in case of enemy fire. 

They’re long gone by the time Tony Stark, bleeding from a wound on his right shoulder, gets to the lobby of his now very damaged home: he leans heavily on the wall, as he gazes out of a broken window, and into the night – Rogers and Barnes are long gone, but if he squints, he can make out the Falcon transporting Widow out of the area, to whatever mode of transport they used to get here. 

He casts his gaze around, looking at all of Zemo’s _best men_ – that’s what he called them, anyway, when he assured Tony that anyone that managed to get past his myriad security, and into his home, would never get out. But now he can see they were no match for the others – no match for Barnes, at least. 

Tony grits his teeth, pulling off the black and gold glove: it served him well, in terms of EMP resistance, and if he’d been able to access the entire suit . . . He doesn’t doubt that this evening would have ended differently. 

He sees blue lights in the distance, and knows someone nearby heard the noise, and called the police. He vows to call Zemo and chew his ear off about the quality of security he promised, and that he delivered – _right_ after he calls Pepper, who’s staying in New York. 

He pulls his phone from his pocket, and hits speed dial 1, waiting for the call to connect:  
“Hi, Pepper – don’t be mad, but the house got trashed . . . _Again_ ,”

-

By the time they get back to Rikki’s house, having abandoned the quinjet around half a mile away from the house in order to prevent any potential tracking or damage to the property, they’re a little worse for wear. It’s clear from her one-word responses and straining to hear the others that Natasha’s hearing has suffered, a little, given the small space that her gunshots occurred in. Sam is largely okay, bar a few scrapes. 

But Steve is having a little more trouble: Tony’s first, surprise blast got him in the abdomen, and the pain is radiating out to his ribs; he can feel that the bruises have already formed, causing him to stoop a little to alleviate the pain, for himself. His arm is slung around Bucky’s shoulder, as they walk. He knows the bruises will be gone by morning, but for now, he feels like someone’s trying to scoop out his insides. 

He feels a huge sense of relief, as they sidle up to the front step of the house: Bucky helps him up onto the porch, and knocks at the door. 

There’s silence, for a few moments: Bucky listens carefully, frowning, and trying to hear any signs of life from inside the house. It’s very late, though – actually, very early morning - so, taking the door handle into his hand, he turns it forcefully, until it gives. He’ll use some of the other locks Rikki has installed on the door to protect them, once they’re inside. 

He helps Steve inside, and the other two follow them, watching as Bucky walks Steve over to the largest couch, and helps him sit. Sam moves to the kitchen – they all hear him call,  
“She’s gone out,” He tells them, reading from a note.  
“Where?” Natasha asks curiously, straining to hear him, despite the volume.  
“. . . A run,” Sam says, sounding a little perplexed. 

Bucky nods. “Strange hours. Makes sense,” He comments. Natasha watches his lips, and nods; Steve purses his lips, but accepts that Rikki is still very much suffering, after her many misfortunes. Having used running as a coping mechanism before, he can understand the appeal of running around the fields – especially in the dark, with nothing and no one around. Nothing to challenge, or attack.

Steve can see how it might be beneficial. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn't feel much more comfortable running in the light – he and Bucky are the same, in that respect. He guesses post-traumatic stress affects everyone differently. It’s not one size fits all. 

As Steve carefully strips off the striped part of his uniform, removing the abdominal part of the suit for a moment, he recalls that he and Bucky managed to stop her from going for a run at her usual time, earlier. She probably felt restless, waiting for them to get back. 

Steve looks down and through the mesh window covering the skin of his stomach, and sees a purpling bruise, extending from a dark, circular mark, about the size of a fist, on his right. From there, it radiates all around, the blast having affected his chest, too. His face is slightly grazed from the rubble – as are Natasha’s and Sam’s – Bucky is the only one unscathed, it appears. He has no qualms about leaving Steve to examine his wounds, before covering them up again by replacing his uniform, while he fetches ice for Sam from Rikki’s freezer. Natasha takes a trip upstairs, for a nap. Steve is surprised but happy to find out that she does, indeed, sleep. But only when she’s had a 48 hour period as exhausting as the one they’ve shared, apparently. 

Bucky returns from the kitchen holding a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a small towel for Sam: he hands it to him wordlessly, before sitting down beside Steve, as he finishes up refastening his costume. He’s not ready to take it off yet. The adrenaline keeps him captive for hours, sometimes. 

“Thanks,” Sam mumbles, pressing the ice pack to his cheek. Bucky nods to him, watching as he settles back in the armchair, eyes slipping shut.  
“That was a close one,” Steve says in a low voice.  
“Til Bucky came in,” Sam points out, without opening his eyes. Steve huffs. He’s still not completely sold, on that one. Bucky doesn’t care right now, because they’re all back safely. 

“Thank you,” Sam says, his eyes opening a little, looking at Bucky – he knows Steve isn't about to say it, so he might as well. “You saved our asses,”  
“Not a problem. Just paying you back,” Bucky mentions. Sam smiles wearily. 

There’s silence in the room, for a few more moments: Steve leans sideways towards Bucky’s flesh shoulder gradually, until he’s leaning on him. Bucky watches him with a fond smile that graces his face completely unbidden; it takes Steve a couple of minutes to fall asleep, sitting up. Bucky doesn’t mind – he can tell Sam will be asleep, too, in a couple of minutes, from the way his face slackens. He hasn’t even removed his wing-pack, yet. Bucky smirks, wondering how he got saddled with a pair of old men. 

He keeps quiet, keeps watch, for an hour or so. 

-

Around 4 am, when it’s still dark but the earliest of early birds are beginning to chirp, Bucky has to get up to use the bathroom. He replaces his own body with cushions to prop Steve up, while he’s gone, and as stealthily as possible makes his way across the creaking floorboards and to the downstairs bathroom. 

As he’s washing his hands, he wonders what time Rikki will be back: there’s a lot of ground to cover around here, and she looks athletic, so he figures she could even be gone for another hour, or so. He glances sideways out of the window, sighing deeply, and looking at the dim, grey-lilac skies that top the seemingly endless crops. 

He shakes his hands into the sink four times, before gripping onto the porcelain, and casting his gaze upwards to his reflection, in the dull mirror: it’s old, but it shows him what his face looks like, so that’s okay. He uses his flesh hand to brush gently at his stubble, which might need shearing, soon. He vividly remembers the motel room, before he met up with Steve again, at that moment – sure, that was the evening, but in both instances the calm and the quiet of the night-time offered him a clarity and a sobering vision of himself that grounded him in the moment. 

He looks down at his left wrist, and remembers carving into the old arm, with a razor blade: the reminder he wrote isn’t as necessary anymore, but he still misses it, a little. A reminder of all that he was – all that he and Steve were, and how he lost it all, and got it back. 

He wets his lips, and looks up at the mirror again. 

Something has changed. 

He freezes, his expression stuck in the half-lidded, weary, thoughtful one that he was wearing before he noticed that the shadows had altered slightly, in the reflection. Someone outside the door is moving. Someone is trying not to be heard. 

Slowly he removes his hands from the sink, swallowing and consciously trying to lower his heart rate so it’s not so loud in his ears. Everything else is silent. 

He turns on one foot, pivoting, and putting the other down silently when he’s facing the door again: his instinct as a perfect soldier is to go for the window; to jump out, and make an escape into the fields – it’s easy to lose a tail, in plants that thick, and tall – but an even older instinct is screaming at him to get to the lounge _now_ , and check on Steve. He can’t be sure it’s not Steve out there, or Natasha, or Sam – but his gut tells him there’s an enemy agent outside the door. 

He collects his thoughts, for a few seconds more; then, shooting forward like a bullet from a gun, he runs into the door, slamming it into whoever is standing outside – he hears a distinct grunt that doesn’t sound anything like Steve, or Sam, or Natasha, and a body clattering to the floor. He sees a man in full STRIKE gear on the floor, climbing to his feet, and boots him in the face, searching around for his inevitable teammates. 

He sees them come from one end of the corridor, from the back door near the communal bathroom, and there’s nowhere to go but the room where Steve is sleeping. There’s no time to alert him. 

There are three of them on him at once, two going for his arms, one aiming a kick right for his face: he dodges backwards, using footwork to evade two while grabbing the outreached arm of the other and clean breaking it with his left arm. He aims a spinning kick to the gut of one, and a sucker-punch to the other, dropping them right away. He notices others coming for him from the same direction though, and knows he has to fall back for the others. 

He enters the room yelling Steve’s name – he just has time to see Steve sit bolt upright, a shocked expression on his face as he and Sam jump to their feet, before everything whites out, and he can’t see, but he can still _feel_. And what he feels is world-consuming agony. 

“No!” Steve screams, watching as an agent gets close enough to grab Bucky’s neck from behind, and force some kind of electrical device onto his arm that makes it – makes Bucky’s _whole body_ jerk like he’s being electrocuted. His metal arm glows red rather than blue, as he falls to his knees, face wrenched in pain and shrouded by dark hair. Steve can still see his eyes, though: clamped shut against the pain the torture is causing him. 

“Stop it! Fuck – stop!” Steve yells, taking up his shield and going straight for the nearest agent – but Sam grabs his arm, dragging him to the front door, because he can see guns, and he can see _body bags_ , and they're nowhere near prepared for this. 

“Get out of here!” He says, keeping low as the sound of gunfire permeates the house.  
“Bucky-!” Steve screams again, but Sam pushes him out the door – from this angle, he can see that about ten men are forcing Bucky to the floor, restraining him, ready to put him in a bag.  
“We’re no good to him caught!” Sam yells, “Run!” 

Steve sees what Sam sees, for just a second: he sees a mask with a white cross emblazoned on it, pulled up so the mouth is showing a rictus grin, as Brock Rumlow watches Bucky pass out from the agony after a couple of agonising minutes, holding a gun which he now aims at Steve. 

He takes Sam’s advice – he starts running, and he doesn’t stop, looking back to try and see if Natasha has escaped from the second floor window, but seeing nothing in the semi-darkness. He watches as Sam’s wings engage, and he disappears into the dark sky, presumably going back for her – or splitting up, _he doesn’t know, his mind is too addled to think of the best plan, here_. 

He hears shouting voices calling his name, demanding that he comes back – and though he wants to, though he wants to _destroy_ them all, he knows he can’t go back. After what he learned from Tony, he knows he’s got to investigate Tony’s senator, and take down whatever factions are pulling the strings here – take down Hydra, _again_. 

But it still feels like it was all for nothing. He feels sick, a cold, panicking sensation rising in his chest, and he can hear his breath so loud, as he thinks that it was all for _nothing, all for nothing, you lost him again, how could you let them touch him, you promised-_

Bucky’s gone, and he let it happen. This is his fault. All of it. 

He runs into the nearest field, the crops taller than even he is, barrelling forward and stowing his shield on his back as he shoots through the plants, leaving a trail of destruction behind him, like _always_. 

He hears yelling behind him, and turns around just for a second – and ducks quickly, as a tranq dart sails past his right ear. His bruises pull and ache as he runs, but he can’t afford to stop, as he hears further shots go off, disappearing into the plants. The rhythm of the shots is absolute, continuing until Steve thinks he can’t dodge any more – then they stop suddenly. 

Steve casts his gaze backwards, as he hears a thump: his pursuer, a STRIKE team grunt probably, slumps forwards face-first to the ground. Steve can see an arrow sticking out of his back. He doesn’t stop to see if the man is dead. He just keeps running. 

He has to keep going. He’s not got a bright future. He’s not running towards a happier tomorrow. Just a dawning day filled with loss, and misery, of which his own actions are the root cause, as he sees it. 

He’s on his own. His friends are scattered, and he’s lost Bucky – the one person aside from Peggy that he really, truly thinks he’s been in love with; the love of his life. Electrocuted, tortured in front of his eyes, restrained, and put in a body bag. Brutally captured, while he watched, and _ran_ , because he wasn't ready, wasn't prepared, went back on his promise to not ever let Bucky get taken by them again, if he couldn't ensure that, himself. 

Steve doesn’t know if he can do this again – he can’t let Bucky die _again_ \- can't lose him, through a fault of his own. He can’t let him down again. 

And yet he has. 

He listens to his own quick breathing hitch, and feels his face grow red and hot; his eyes water, and the different crops all merge into one, whipping at his face and body, but he doesn’t feel it. He keeps running. 

He can’t believe he lost him again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around!! Looks like I'm going to be keeping up the two chapters a week until this is finished, meaning the next one will be on thursday. I'm super glad that you're all so eager for more, and that you're enjoying this so far!!
> 
> As an aside, I'd like to add that the next 3 chapters were all written before any details about the civil war trailer were dropped. Everything you see here is 100% from my brain formed without input from those trailer descriptions that are floating around. But how about those descriptions, huh?! Wicked cool. 
> 
> Thanks a bunch!! And sorry

The day is light, when Steve finds himself sitting on the side of a dusty backroad, with a truck coming towards him. He’s been sitting in the grey light, listening to the wind rustle the crops behind him, for a length of time he can’t calculate – he didn’t stop running for hours, though. He can barely feel the stinging of the cuts on his face. The bruising on his torso is gone, and his hands cling weakly to the grass. He thinks he’s been crying, but he stopped paying attention properly after a while. 

His knees are drawn up to his chest, as he stares at a point on the road: that changes when the truck decides to come past. He knows, logically, that a STRIKE team – Hydra agents – wouldn’t choose that kind of vehicle to try and apprehend Captain America (though he didn’t see the vehicle they used to arrive, back at Rikki’s house, whatever it was). They’d use an armoured truck, full of soldiers, to capture, and restrain, and knock out. 

He doesn’t know how they found all of them. He just knows that Bucky is gone. He’s lost him, again, and he’s ashamed. 

He gets up as quickly as he can manage – heaving his weary bones into position with aching muscles – and begins to slowly walk in the same direction the truck is travelling in. Though he’s still got his stealth suit on from the mission, they won’t see is face, at least. He takes the shield from his back, and angles it so the driver can’t see the pattern. It could be anything, now. He’s not worthy of it. _What’s the point of being Captain America – of pretending to be worthy of that title – when he can’t save Bucky? – Not now, not ever?_

He trudges along slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, until that tiny truck on the horizon comes closer and he can hear it. He can’t remember deciding to stop walking, and to sit, before, but he can remember why, now: keeping on stepping, walking forward but with nowhere to go and no hope on the horizon, is hypnotic; he feels numb, as the crops provide a steady, revolving backdrop, tinged with grey and all the same. It’s as if their colour has been drained, too; their vibrancy stolen. 

The truck pulls up alongside him, and for a moment, he thinks it will pass him by completely: but it slows down, matching his pace, as the driver stares out of the window and at him. He doesn’t look. He just keeps walking. 

“Steve,” The driver says as quietly as he can, while still being heard over the sound of the engine. 

Steve sighs, and finally turns his head to one side: he sees Clint driving the truck, and frowns, surprised.  
“Barton?” He asks, gradually stilling to a stop. Clint pulls over, hands dropping from the ten-two position, onto his lap. He looks beaten up, with a white band-aid on the bridge of his nose; a black eye, and bandages hiding a multitude of bruises and cuts on both of his arms, that Steve can see, not hidden by his purple t-shirt. His hair still has the occasional blotch of blood in it; his pale blue eyes are sad, and his mouth is a grim line. He doesn’t know how to say it. 

“Come back. Sam and Nat are at a motel in town a couple of hours out,” Clint mentions.  
“That was quick,” Steve comments, on autopilot.  
“. . . Been working on finding somewhere safe all day. It’s getting dark, again. I was worried I wouldn’t find you before the light faded,”

Steve looks back down at his feet, his shoulders drooping. It’s been all day. The hours – the bright sun, and the heat, and the sweet scent in the air – they all passed him by, in his mourning, and hopelessness. It’s cold comfort that the others are okay. He feels like he did when he just got pulled out of the ice – watching time pass by, but not his time, not his world – and he hates it. He doesn’t want to go back to that. No matter how incredible his friends are. Depression is hard, especially when something drastic like this happens, even with the best of company. But he has to get on. 

Steve nods once. So Clint reaches over, and opens the passenger door, beckoning with his head for Steve to come around; Steve does so mechanically. He dumps his shield in the truck, seeing some bags he recognises as his own and the others’ – _including Bucky’s_ – in there, too. He can’t stand to hold the shield, right now. He settles into the passenger seat, and slams the door behind him. His hands fall uselessly into his lap. 

Clint looks him up and down; sees how he looks straight ahead, for a moment or two, before sighing and setting off, again. 

“You got pretty far. Guess the crops were good cover. I sometimes lose the kids out in the field – Laura says I’d lose my own head, if it wasn’t screwed on,” He says, with a gentle smile. Steve looks over to him, and tries his best to smile, too. Clint glances at him, again, and his smile fades.

“. . . Are they okay?” Steve asks quietly. 

Clint changes gears, shifting in his seat slightly; Steve watches the movement, somehow defiant and frustrated, and becomes more worried. Clint catches him watching, and forces a smile, again.  
“I know, right? – Just my luck to steal a stick-shift,” He says, shaking his head. 

Steve doesn’t reply, because that wasn’t an answer. He feels as if anything that’s happened to Clint’s family is on him – the choices he’s made. Finally, Clint answers:  
“I think they’re alright. Can’t be too sure. Laura might’ve been arrested, the way she was fighting the squad that came for me. I didn’t hear anything about it. The kids were asleep, but Nate cried. It was pretty loud, for them,” He says, his speech slightly stilted towards the end of the sentence. Steve winces. 

“How did you get away?” 

Clint looks genuinely amused, for a flicker of a second.  
“Trick arrow. Thought they might be coming, so I – hid one down my pants leg. An explosive one. Had my hearing aids in my pocket, couldn’t hear the damn thing – startled ‘em enough to get away,”  
“But why are you here?” Steve asks, puzzled as to why Clint would put himself in more danger. He smiles sadly.  
“Can’t go home – I can’t risk putting my family in danger, again. I’m due such a huge holiday after this,” Clint points out, despite the fact he was on leave, during the scandal. “. . . They didn’t expect me to double-back. I followed them, keeping one step ahead, listening in on their frequencies with some of my old spy gear – you know, stuff I keep in station lockers, and locked up-dumpsters on the edges of towns. Secret stashes,” Clint explains. Steve can't imagine that he's joking. “Listened in to their movements. They had a tracking device – said it was on _the asset_ ,” He glances over to Steve, whose expression is thoughtful. “Figured he meant Barnes. You know anything about that?” 

Steve considers it for a moment, fitting the pieces together; he sets his jaw, and grits out,  
“Bucky’s new arm. Stark-issue. Must have a tracking device in it,”  
“. . . Shit. That’s low,” Clint says, his grip tightening on the steering wheel; the abrasions on his knuckles whiten, and he winces. Steve just nods, feeling guilt settle even heavier in his gut, now. 

“. . . Wondered why you had a spare arm, back at the house,” Clint mentions. Steve frowns, looking at him thoughtfully –  
“You went back,” He says softly, remembering the belongings in the back of the truck. The arm must have been well-hidden. There’s hardly anything like it in the world, so that’s a smart move.  
“Last place they’d expect. After I took out a few goons, I hid in the shed, then I went back into the house – almost got beat to death with a baseball bat. There was a girl there, said it was _her house_ , and _what had I done with you guys_. Guess she didn’t recognise me. I’m not on the A-list,” He says, with a tone of resignation, like he’s fully come to terms with that, over the years. Steve knows he loves to meet fans, but doesn’t expect it, usually. 

“I explained to her what happened. She was real cut up,” Clint says, shaking his head – he gazes over to Steve, who looks away, and out of the window, at the seemingly endless crop-fields. He must have been going in circles all day – or the expanse stretches for miles and miles. He can’t say.  
“Who is she?” 

Steve licks his lips, and thinks that Bucky might never see her again; they barely met her, and her house got trashed, and they dragged her into this fight, when it wasn’t hers. She’s suffered enough. Just like Bucky. 

_They should have upped and left, when they had a chance. Just said goodbye to it all; gone undercover, and never fought again. Steve would have forced himself to do that, against every instinct, to prevent this from happening._

“. . . A friend. Bucky’s – grand-niece,” Steve says, doing some mental maths to come up with that title.  
“Shit,” Clint exclaims, mildly impressed. “Didn’t realise he knew her,”  
“They got on. It – wasn’t an ideal situation. Ended too soon,” Steve says, looking down sharply into his lap. 

_It’s all too soon. Seventy years of ice and torture, for under a year of difficult recovery, and maybe a week or two where their happiness together truly outweighed their misery, and their internal demons._

“I’m sorry,” Clint says quietly.  
“Don’t be. This isn’t your fault. It’s on me. And I need to fix it,” Steve asserts. 

Clint tears his eyes from the road, again, to look over to Steve: he’s staring straight ahead, one hand on the door, gripping the handle tightly. Clint can see a dent in the metal. 

“It’s not on you. It’s – on Tony. I have no fucking idea what he’s doing, but he did this to us. He tried to incriminate you both, and the rest of us got dragged in, whether he wanted us to, or not. Actions have consequences, but it seems like we’re the only ones picking up the tab, here,” Clint points out. “Bucky’s suffered – forced to do things he wouldn’t choose. Things he’d hate – I can sympathise. Fighting Tasha . . . I still have nightmares,” Clint admits. Steve looks up at him, surprised – he’s usually hiding his feelings with a quip and a precisely-timed arrow. It seems like he’s too tired – tired in his body, tired of today, tired of this whole scandal – to put on a front, right now. Or maybe he’s helping Steve feel better. Steve thinks that he’s probably a really good father. 

“. . . None of you ever blamed me for that. No one blamed me, except me. That was enough to send me to a dark place, for a while. So I can’t imagine if someone I thought was supposed to be my ally tried to come for me, over it – and Barnes has been captive too long, already. It’s not right,” Clint says, shaking his head. Steve can hear the anger in his voice creeping up. He’s sorry that Clint’s bad memories of being controlled by Loki are coming to the forefront – but almost selfishly, he’s glad that he’s acting so viciously protective of Bucky. 

He can empathise. So can Natasha, and Sam, and Wanda. Something's stopping Tony from doing that – something more than the half-baked notion that Bucky chose to kill his parents, which isn’t true at all. 

Something. Maybe some _one_. 

“He’s working with someone. Senator Zemo,” Steve says.  
“Who?” Clint asks, genuinely confused.  
“I’d never heard of him, either. And I’ve met over my fair share of Senators,” Steve points out.  
“Right. You’d think you, of all people, would have been to some ribbon-cutting with him – you know, when you were doing all those press events SHIELD wanted you to do, a couple of years back. Public image, and all that,”  
“Before I talked about vaccines and being bisexual,” Steve adds sardonically.  
“Right,” Clint says, with a small smirk. “. . . So you think this guy is, what – Sarah Palin levels of republican?”  
“I think he’s Hydra. I’m sure of it, actually – he gave Tony access to files and information only Hydra have access to. Stuff about Bucky, mainly. His bad times. To make him look unstable. To mislead people,” Steve says, shaking his head. 

“Never thought Tony would work with Hydra – hell, I never thought Hydra would manage to get in with the government _again_ ,” Clint points out.  
“Well he has. He weathered the storm – or he’s managed to work his way in. Infiltrate, in just two years - convince Tony to work with him. I don’t know if it’s possible,” Steve thinks aloud. 

“We can find out when we get back. Tasha’s set up secure line to a friend of Sam’s. He’ll see what he can see,” Clint says cryptically. “He’s a tool. But he’s good with computers. And stealing,” 

Steve purses his lips, but nods, all the same. 

“. . . We’ll find out where they took him, Steve. We’ll find out what they’re gonna do,” Clint says, in a low voice, reaching out to touch Steve’s shoulder, in a gesture of solidarity. The touch is welcome, but it doesn’t solve anything at all. Not when Steve isn’t sure the words are correct. 

So Steve stares at the glove box, idly wondering if there’s a gun inside, and says nothing. 

\- 

They arrive at the motel room that they’ve managed to get hold of after a few hours of driving. It’s in a remote town, surrounded by fields and a couple of local stores, but not much else. Steve supposes it’s as good a place as any to pick up the pieces. There’s no nice way to do it. 

Sam is the only one present in the room, when Clint unlocks the door: he’s standing in a practised stance, facing side on with both hands supporting a pistol, aimed squarely into Clint’s face, when he opens the door. Clint throws his hands up immediately; Sam’s face relaxes, but he looks irritable.  
“The secret knock, man,” He says, exasperated.  
“. . . I forgot,” Clint says scratching his head.  
“I thought you were supposed to be good at this spy crap,” Sam mutters, setting his pistols down on the desk beside him.  
“I found Cap, didn’t I?” Clint points out, gesturing to Steve, who steps in after him, eyes surveying the worn-out room, as he and Clint dump their things onto the bed. The desk is covered in a bunch of hard-copy files, and an old silver laptop. Steve guesses the files belong to Natasha, who never showed them the contents of her bags – but he can’t imagine that she would own anything as outdated as that laptop. 

“It’s mine,” Clint says, following his gaze. “Keep it in a station locker not too far from here. It’s not connected to the internet, before you panic. Just good for plugging USB drives into,”  
“What USB drives?” Steve asks quietly.  
“Ones I keep in a lock-box,” Clint says, being deliberately vague about the location, yet again. “They have all sorts of SHIELD datafiles on them,” He boasts.  
“But strangely, not much about Zemo," Sam says. "The guy is squeaky clean. SHIELD don’t have any dirt on him, except public interviews he started giving a few months back, when he came into office.  
“Family tree spread all over Europe - mainly German, and Russian - but no known Hydra affiliation, or else they’d have picked up on it and he’d be in jail, by now,” Sam adds. “Natasha’s files were a bust, too,”  
“Do we even know what the guy looks like?” Steve asks. 

Sam sighs, and nods towards the bed: there’s a couple more files there, and a newspaper.  
“He’s giving everyone who’ll listen his two cents worth about us. Says we’re a bad influence on American youth. It looks like political posturing, but since we heard what Tony said about him, it definitely sounds like something more,” 

Steve steps up to the bed, and picks up the paper: on the front page there’s an article about Stark Industries. Pepper is pictured speaking at a press conference – held just this morning, by the looks of it – she looks tired, and extremely put-upon, and Steve feels a little guilty, thinking about how he and the others basically destroyed her home. She didn’t look to be home, though. It’s still no excuse, and he wishes it wasn’t the case. 

He skims the article: _Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts has this morning said that Stark Industries does not wish to be affiliated with the political views of former CEO Tony Stark. Stark has recently come out in opposition of Captain Steve Rogers and his newly-announced partner, Sergeant James Barnes. Potts was today quoted as saying, “I don’t want the company to take sides, here. Tony hasn’t been involved in the running of Stark Industries for a few years, now, and his opinions have no bearing on how I’m running the company. We will fulfil our existing defence contracts without incident – I’m here to reassure our stockholders of that, in regards to our work.”_

_When asked for a personal opinion on what has been dubbed a ‘civil war’ of sorts between opposing avengers, after refusing to answer the question for a few moments, Potts eventually said, “I think the waters have become a little muddied. People can’t seem to decide if they want Barnes tried and convicted for war crimes, or for being in a relationship with Steve Rogers. A lot of people have changed their opinions since Steve came out, and that’s not right. It’s a shame that the Avengers have come to blows over this, and that there has already been some regrettable fallout, but there’s no clear cut answer, here. I think Barnes should receive a fair trial. And that shouldn’t be a controversial opinion in the country we live in.” She refused to comment any further on the matter._

_Potts was then asked to comment on her relationship with Tony Stark, given their seemingly partly conflicting views on the matter: she told the press that she didn’t see how that was relevant, before giving a response of 'no comment'._

Steve smiles gently as he reads her words: it’s nice to know that she isn’t using her power and influence to throw them to the wolves; he understands her need to keep her company neutral, though. He just wishes Tony would listen to her more. Clearly, he’s too blinded by his need for revenge, and perhaps by his personal dislike of Bucky. He really doesn’t care whether Tony likes Bucky or not – but regardless, Bucky shouldn’t be treated like he’s being treated, now. He shouldn’t be suffering, and he shouldn’t have had to come face-to-face with one or more of his abusers during his detainment. 

Tony may not have known anything about Rumlow, or even that he would be involved – but getting in with Zemo was a bad move, and his decisions have had terrible repercussions, regardless. 

He folds a couple of pages over, and scans them for a second or two before coming across the picture he’s looking for – a smug-looking Senator Zemo, first name _Henry_ according to official records, but Steve doubts that very much. 

He’s young, for a senator, Steve thinks: everyone in power used to be much older in his day, but even by today’s standards, Zemo sees youthful. His hair is brown, and he’s clean shaven, and sharply dressed, with black designer glasses. His arms are folded, with one of his hands clearly visible, showing off a gold ring with a large, yellow stone set into it. He thinks that it must be a rare stone, for him to be showing it off, so much; subtly showing off his wealth, when out there, in the America he helps govern, people are starving. 

Steve’s lip curls, as he runs his eyes over Zemo’s smirking face, again: the face of someone who knows he’s already won. The face of someone who sleeps at night, despite working with men just as despicable as himself, like Brock Rumlow. The face of a man who doesn’t get his hands dirty, but still manages to vilify, torture and detain abuse victims who in no way deserve it. Steve throws the paper down on the bed with start, feeling sick and full of rage, at the sight of the man who’s managed to wreck his hard-won, tentatively happy life, in a matter of _days_. They had problems, like anyone else – but they were recovering, and they were doing _good_. Bucky felt as if he was atoning. And now he’s in jail, when it should be the senator. 

Maybe jail would be too good for him, honestly. 

Clint makes his way to the bathroom, whistling to break up the tension that’s built up in the room, and locking the door behind him.  
“I’m not gonna ask if you’re okay,” Sam says, in a low voice. “Because you’re not. None of us are, but especially, you’re not okay. You just saw him tortured in front of your eyes, and imprisoned,”  
“How could they,” Steve mutters, staring down at the paper. “What kind of monster would think that was okay?”  
“Hydra. This is what they do. You know that by now,” Sam reminds him gently.  
“. . . This is my country, Sam,” Steve says, sounding genuinely upset; his fists clench at his sides. “Not Germany, not the war – not the sixties, not Zola – this is people who’ve grown up right here, and still value what the Nazis value. It’s – not just Pierce. The thought that someone else could be twisted enough to be like this – that they’d go to all this trouble just to hurt Bucky – it makes me sick,” Steve says, and he can feel his anger building up, again; his fists shake at his sides, as he continues to look down at the paper. 

“. . . Is this what I fought for? – So I could be hounded like this? So people could prey on abuse victims, all in the name of America?” Steve asks. “Because America isn’t worth a damn if it doesn’t fight to keep the ideals of freedom it was built on. It’s nothing at all. Bucky wasn’t free then, and he isn’t free now. None of us are,” 

“I know,” Sam says, rising from his seat, and carefully making his way towards Steve. He picks up the newspaper, removing it from Steve’s eyeline, and drawing Steve’s attention to his face. “Believe me, I know. It’s not just Bucky. I have no choice but to be scared that my family – that so many people I know are going to be killed by the police, every day. It’s not freedom, it’s fear. You had it right all along. Tanking project Insight was one thing – but the fight’s nowhere near over. It’s not just Hydra, it’s the whole goddamn system. But . . .” Sam shakes his head, folding his arms. Steve watches him carefully. “. . . If we managed to get him out. If we made a statement – if we told the world that we weren’t going to take it, anymore. We could inspire others to stand up, and tell the press, and the whole world – no, _you_ move,” 

Steve stares at Sam for a good few seconds: there’s a passion in his eyes that Steve has never really seen before – it’s not that Sam isn’t usually passionate, it’s that this is a unique form of fire in his belly, fuelled by the need for things to change in a big way. It’s not just about Bucky, anymore: it’s about everyone who’s constantly taking a hit for being who they are. It’s strange, to hear his own words – _telling the whole world no, you move_ – said back to him. Sam obviously pays a lot of attention to his rants, when he goes off on one to the other Avengers about whatever injustice they’ve seen that day. He thought no one listened. But Sam always listens to him. 

“. . . This could be the catalyst. We have to speak out more,” Steve says.  
“Exactly. We’re not gonna be pushed around anymore. None of us,” Sam says, voice deadly serious. “So we get Barnes. We take out Zemo. If they want us arrested, that’s tough. Because we’re not backing down from this, or from anything,” Sam says. “Not when we can do something about it,” 

Steve rests his hands on his hips, for a second, taking in what Sam has said: his shoulders fall, and he stares off to one side, at the greying, peeling wallpaper around the headboard of the bed.  
“. . . I’m glad I met you, Sam,” He says sincerely, turning his gaze back to Sam.  
“I’m just glad you let me carry the shield, sometimes,” Sam says, with a half-smile. Steve smiles, and for a second, he can forget all the bad things that are currently happening in his life. 

“It’s a privilege for me, that you agree to carry it,” Steve says. His eyes wander to the newspaper again, and he asks after a slight pause, “So who’s your contact? Clint mentioned something about a thief, on the way over,” 

Sam just smiles. 

-

“. . . This is your secure line, Nat,” Steve says, looking down at the mobile phone on the bed, next to a pad and a pen. They all sit around on the bed, staring down apprehensively at the phone, waiting for it to ring. 

“It’s a burner. That’s all I got,” She points out defensively. “We’re not working with much, here,”  
“What time is bug-brain calling anyway?” Clint asks, folding his arms. Natasha makes a face at him for the childish name. _Really?_  
“Any second now. I set up the call for half eight,” Natasha explains, looking up at the faded clock on the wall; tracking the second hand, with her eyes. It’s 35 past. 

“And we’re sure we can trust him? . . . I mean, the – _Ant-Man_?” Steve asks, his voice serious, but wavering slightly with doubt.  
“He doesn’t like the name, either. He didn’t choose it. And he’s stronger than you think,” Sam says, clearing his throat a little. Steve raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing. 

Finally, the phone rings: Natasha makes a grab for it, waits a couple of seconds, then answers the call; puts it on speaker-phone.  
“Hello? Am I talking with public enemies number one, two and three right now?” A voice from the other end of the phone asks. Sam smirks.  
“And four!” Clint points out, sounding offended.  
“. . . Yeah, anyway,” The voice says, sounding unconvinced.  
“Yeah, it’s us. Good to hear from you, Scott,” Sam says.  
“Nice to meet you,” Steve says.  
“I – I can't believe I'm talking to Captain America right now! It's an honour to speak with you, sir - but I can’t believe you’re wanted by the police . . . _And_ I can’t believe I’m even getting involved a little bit. Parole’s over, but if I get caught-”  
“Then don’t get caught,” Natasha says, her smirk evident in her voice. He huffs on the other end of the line. 

“Do you have the research I asked for when Sam put me in contact with you?” She continues, waiting patiently for the answer. They all hear the sound of typing; Scott sighs.  
“Yeah. I do. It’s more confusing than helpful, though,” Scott says. Sam looks up from the phone, and at Steve, who frowns back at him.  
“. . . How so?” Steve asks.  
“It’s hard to find any trace of Zemo before a couple of years ago, Cap. I keep thinking that I must be imagining it, or something – then I remember what you said, and I pick it up again. If the truth is out there, someone doesn’t want me to know it. Maybe not just me,”  
“You’re saying it’s hard to find,” Clint says, unimpressed.  
“No, I mean it feels wrong to even _look_. Which is why he’s been able to fly under the radar this whole time. But – I looked anyway,” Scott explains. “It all falls apart under scrutiny. All the pages crop up just after the helicarriers came down. None of them are older than that. This guy came from nowhere – literally, nowhere,”  
“But Tony’s met him,” Steve points out.  
“Tony Stark?” Scott asks, a little surprised. “. . . If he’s in with this guy, he’s in pretty deep. He’s bad news-”  
“He’s Hydra,” Steve says, his disgust evident in his voice.  
“. . . I was gonna say that. Stole my thunder, Cap,” Scott says. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“So this guy shows up from nowhere two years ago. How does he manage to worm his way into public office? Even if his predecessor died? – I mean, I assume he’s got a fake identity,” Sam asks.  
“I don’t know about that. But I picked up on something else. Do you guys have a picture of him there with you?” Scott asks. 

They all look up and at the desk, then at Clint, who’s closest – he sighs, but scrambles off the bed, to grab the newspaper. The picture of him next to the article about his comments on the civil war that’s brewed between Tony and Steve is in colour – Clint lays it down, and smooths out the paper with grazed fingers, for them all to look at. 

“Can you see the ring? . . . The one with the stone set into it? The yellow one?” Scott asks. 

Steve stares: he can see it, as he could before. Zemo has his arms folded, the fingers of one hand resting on the biceps of the other, with an expression of satisfaction on his face. His fingers are visible, and it’s almost as if he’s presenting the ring for them to view – hiding in plain sight.  
“I was trying to find the origin of it, for more of a clue as to where he _really_ came from. No luck. But it’s strange to look at, isn’t it?” He asks. 

There’s a long pause – Steve feels uncomfortable, as he stares at the picture for longer and longer. It’s not just because this man has been conspiring to hurt Bucky, to _imprison_ him again, and to turn half the Avengers into outlaws. There’s something about it that makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise; makes him feel slightly fearful, as if he shouldn’t be seeing it. As if everything could fall apart, if he touched it. 

He shakes himself – when he comes back to himself, Natasha is grabbing the paper; she stares down at it avidly: her eyes are wide and slightly wild, as she stares down at it.  
“That doesn’t . . . It doesn’t make sense,” She says.  
“What?” Clint asks, looking over her shoulder, though he looks queasy, too.  
“. . . I think I’ve seen this before. I mean, I think I know what it is,” She mentions, her voice low. She licks her lips, as their gazes press her to add more. She tears her eyes from the picture, looking rattled, and says, “Did you all read the SHIELD Ultron reports?”  
“Yes,” Steve and Sam say in unison – Clint shifts, and shrugs.  
“Did you even hand in your report, Clint? . . . I’m talking about Thor’s write-up, anyway,” She says. He finally shakes his head.  
“To be honest, I think Nate covered it in spaghettios,” He admits. 

“I didn’t get to read them,” Scott says, over the phone. Natasha purses her lips.  
“Thor experienced a nightmare at the hands of Wanda Maximoff – a _vision_. He talked about infinity stones. Talked about what they looked like, the colours – what each colour has the ability to do. He even drew them out. Coloured them in, to be sure,”  
“Didn’t realise the guy had artistic talents,” Clint says, with a smirk.  
“You think that ring has an . . . Infinity . . . Gem set into it?” Scott asks, sounding doubtful. “Sounds fun,”  
“Infinity _stone_. And sort of – they’re usually bigger than that. Think of the tesseract. That, that he’s wearing – it’s only part of one,” She says.  
“. . . Okay, not fun,” Scott comments. 

Steve stares into Natasha’s eyes, for a moment – looks deep into them, and sees fear. They’ve all tangled with infinity stones, of various descriptions, before. The Tesseract alone – with its power to control others, to start _wars_ , was massively dangerous, in the wrong hands. So Zemo, who’s working with Hydra, having even a part of it – could have catastrophic consequences. 

And if that’s only part of the stone –  
“. . . Hydra could have the rest of it,” Steve says, horrified.  
“But – you know, for those of us who didn’t read up – what does the yellow stone do? I thought the Vision’s one was yellow?” Clint asks, rubbing the back of his neck guiltily.  
“Well it’s not missing a chunk, so it’s not the same,” Natasha says. “And if you’d read Thor’s report-” She adds.  
“-not an Avenger! Don’t get to read the reports!” Scott points out again.  
“-you’d know that the yellow one is the reality stone,” 

Silence falls on the room: even Scott, who has no idea about the infinity stones, knows that’s bad news, apparently. 

Steve sits up a little straighter: the room suddenly feels as if it’s getting smaller, all around him. _The reality stone_. Which means-

“He can control _reality_?” Sam asks, in disbelief.  
“Manipulate it, to his will,” Natasha confirms, her voice solemn, and deadly serious.  
_He’s manipulated this whole thing_ , Steve thinks. _He has to have. He inserted himself into the senate with no opposition, manipulated reality itself to become a respected public figure within months, while retaining his secret identity as a member of Hydra. Helped Rumlow find us – helps them catch Bucky. Tony’s always been wary of Bucky, but – but maybe Zemo twisted things, made him rabid for revenge – made him give away secrets, all to get Bucky right where he wanted him, so he could–_

Steve stands abruptly. The others look at him.  
“We can’t let him be around Bucky. We have to get him back, now,” He asserts, his face stormy, with the weight of the realisation he’s just undergone.  
“Cap-” Clint says, but Steve cuts him off.  
“No. Zemo’s Hydra, and he – he could do anything, with that ring. He could make it so Bucky gets the death sentence – make an exception. He could make him relapse – make him regress, back to the point where-”  
“Where Hydra get their asset back,” Natasha realises, her eyes wide, looking up at Steve in horror.  
“I can’t let it happen, Nat,” Steve says, looking down at her, and his eyes have something dark and not entirely balanced in them. “I can’t fail him again. I let them at him-”  
“He could have made it so you couldn’t save him,” Sam points out.  
“But I still failed. And I have to get him back. I don’t care what it costs me. I’ll do it alone if I need to,” Steve says – and it sounds like a threat. He can see the others withdraw, a little, gazes drawn to his wild eyes, and his shaking, clenched fists, down by his sides. Even in the cheapest of clothes Natasha could salvage from a local store, his physique screams _threat_. He’s forgotten that he’s not five feet tall, anymore. He often does, when it comes to situations like these. Perhaps because he still feels powerless as ever, and wants to change that. 

“. . . We won’t let you go alone, Steve,” Sam says, rising from the bed, as well – slowly, he places a hand on his shoulder, gauging whether the movement is welcome or not. Steve abides it: it feels like strength, and solidarity. It feels like they’re going to tell Zemo, and the media, and the world, _no, you move_. Just like Sam promised. 

“We stand with you. We fight with you,” Clint agrees, sitting up straighter, and nodding solemnly, all pretence of joking and sarcasm gone. He knows the tone, now. It’s going to be a fight to the death.  
“I’ve had my share of being controlled. So has James. So has every one of us – never again. Our future is our own,” Natasha says. “. . . We get him back,” 

Steve nods, looking around the room: he sees three determined faces and he knows that he’s willing to die not only for this, but for them. And he thinks they might feel the same. His hands stop shaking, but his fists don’t unclench. He knows what they’re going to do, now. He knows how they’re going to fight back. 

“. . . Uh, I don’t know if Sam told you, but I am a burglar, and I’ve pulled off a heist or two, in my time,” Scott chimes in, from the phone. Steve had almost forgotten him.  
“Thought you didn’t wanna break any more laws?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow with a smile, even though Scott can’t see him.  
“Yeah, well. I kind of want to punch this Zemo guy in the dick, after looking at his face so long. That, plus Bucky Barnes seems like a swell guy, and I’d _really_ like to be on his good side when you guys get him back,”  
“You know, Scott, I think I just heard you say something that wasn’t completely stupid,” Clint mentions.  
“You realise you guys are ruining the moment, right?” Sam says, his hand slipping from Steve’s shoulder to his own hip, in exasperation. 

“It’s a talent,” Scott admits. “Anyway. Barnes is scheduled to be incarcerated in a specialist SHIELD facility in Nevada, last I read on the news. I’ll see what the little guys can pick up by hanging around all the right people. So,” He pauses, clearly taking a second to savour the moment, “. . . Who’s ready for a jailbreak?” 

-

The walls of the halls all look the same. At first glance, they’re all identical. It’s a rat’s nest of chrome and mesh and hyper-cleanliness, almost hospital-like. Fitting, because the cell he’s been given is padded. Even the bench is padded. 

But he notices the differences: the changes in the brickwork, the hairline cracks in the paint, the areas where the colour is very slightly faded due to a small vent letting in light opposite. His eyes flick from wall to wall, the only moving part of his face, as he concentrates on not tripping up on the restraints binding his feet to his hand. 

His prosthesis is gone. It didn’t stop hurting him, sending small electrocutions through his entire body at random intervals, making him unable to relax and unable to recuperate, or plan a way out, until they took it off. At least that only came an hour into processing. At least he was asleep for some of it. 

The rest . . . He wasn’t so lucky. The shower he could probably have managed without shame, if Rumlow wasn’t there. His words the last time they met, in Franklin’s office, rang in Bucky’s ears – and his predatory gaze let him know Rumlow probably missed seeing him humiliated, and tortured. He genuinely enjoys watching him go red, and be incredibly uncomfortable. He tried to be stoical through it all, though. 

Even when they started to tamper painfully with his neural implant. He couldn’t really remember, before, what it felt like to have it turned off. It felt almost like a very quiet humming had ceased in his brain, and he was completely disconnected from his prosthesis, for the first time in a decades. Clearly Hydra – who are undoubtedly mixed up in all this, if that senator is involved, at all – learned their lesson from his previous visits to their bases, using his disembodied limb to decimate their agents. 

His wet hair covered his face, pallid against the blue of his prison jumpsuit, but Rumlow was keen to push it out of the way, going above and beyond the call of duty, in time for his processing photograph: Bucky flinched at the feeling of his rough fingers lingering on the skin of his face, a smirking grin splitting his face with the knowledge that Bucky couldn’t do anything to stop him – not restrained, not in custody. Bucky was half tempted to bite his fucking fingers off, though. 

They haven’t asked him anything yet – he doesn’t know how long it’s been, what time or day it is, because they keep the white lights on in his cell throughout the day and night, but his internal body clock tells him it’s been around 24 hours since he came to in processing. In that time he’s sat and thought, a lot, in his cell: he’s wondered if Rikki is okay. He's worried about whether Steve, Sam and Nat got away. He’s wondered what they’re doing, right now. He’s wondered if anyone in the world who cares about him at all even knows where he is. 

He’s still hoping they don’t try anything rash. This place has some extreme security measures, from what he’s seen. Nothing he could overcome with his one hand chained to his feet, and the other arm nothing but a metal-clad stump. And, besides – if it’s a choice between the freedom and safety of Steve, and the others, versus his own . . . It’s no contest, for him. He would never choose himself, over them. He supposes that’s love. It’s something he never thought he could be capable of – but he’s surprised himself. He feels proud, even though that might be stupid. 

So he doesn’t feel unhappy, to be incarcerated. He'll sit in the queasy white light of his padded cell, imagining Steve’s face in the stitching, painting a happy picture for himself of the others laughing, and together, with his mind. Even if he doesn’t get his fair trial – which he suspects he won’t – he can live, if he can find out that Steve isn’t in here, too. 

They keep walking. Luckily, it seems like Rumlow hasn’t managed to worm his way into the facility’s staff, too, so he isn’t in the group of guards escorting him to what’s been called ‘an interview’: that’s all the guards said, when they came to his cell to collect him, and take him on what seems like an incredibly long journey through the facility. He’s keeping track of the way, though. He’s forming a floor plan, in his mind, and taking note of ventilation, security, and power measures. 

He can tell this is a SHIELD facility: even without recognising that the guards are wearing uniforms characteristic of SHIELD agents, quick glances into other cells next to his have revealed angry eyes, watching him closely through the small glass window in the door, if the metal panels that sometimes cover them are open. Some of those eyes are ones he remembers, from the AIM facility. They belong to people he hurt, and knocked out. He almost looks away – but then he remembers what Rikki looked like inside that freezer, lying there, face bloodless and sleep-slack, with poison in her veins. And he feels rage the likes of which they can’t possibly imagine bubbling just under his skin. 

He stares back. They see something terrifying, for just a second, and then he’s gone, being ushered on. 

He doesn’t know who he’s expecting to be interviewing him. But when he’s marched into the room, forced into a seat, and chained to the interview table, he gets a first look at his interviewer: he looks somewhat familiar, but then again, sometimes faces fade into one, for Bucky. Especially ones he last saw before he broke free from his Hydra captors. 

He's a young-looking man, middle-aged at most, clean shaved with immaculately-groomed brown hair, containing no specks of grey. He wears an expensive suit – the kind Bucky has ruined with bullet wounds, before – and wears a gold ring on his left hand. It has a yellow stone set into it that draws Bucky’s eye, until the guards leave the room, and his interviewer speaks. 

“Winter Soldier,” He says by way of a greeting, ignoring Bucky’s glare as he introduces himself: “My name is Senator Hank Zemo,” His voice is calm and superior and, though he introduces himself as a US Senator, his accent has a transatlantic quality to it; he sounds more Eastern European, and English doesn't seem to be his first language. Bucky's heard that kind of voice before: European of some description, masked by a casual veneer of American. And from the way Zemo is looking at him, he suspects this isn't their first encounter, though the last one may well have been in Germany or Russia. His heart sinks even deeper than before, though he thought it impossible.

Bucky’s eyes flit down to the chain fastening him to the table for just a second – Zemo smirks, and tells him: “Those chains are reinforced. The table is secured to the floor through layers of concrete. There is a shielded observation window to your right. You are trapped, Winter Soldier,” He says smugly. 

Bucky looks slowly up from his chains, and into Zemo’s eyes: he recoils a little from the intensity he sees in them, and the nasty expression turned his way. Those eyes burn with a hatred and morbid fascination Bucky’s rarely seen, since he escaped from his abusers. Hatred isn’t something exclusive to Hydra, but they certainly seem to do it better than anyone else. Anyone except Bucky. 

“My name is Bucky,” He growls. 

The senator snorts gently, showing his amusement. Bucky knows it’s petulant, but he’s so uncomfortable with those two words, he can’t help but protest. It makes him feel something other than human. It makes him feel as if he'll never be able to leave the war behind, even if he tries. 

“You used to say that a lot. My father – worked for Department X. A special branch of Hydra, and he would always tell me bedtime stories – horror stories, I loved them,” He confides, in a voice like he’s sharing a charming anecdote with a group of youths during his re-election campaign. “He told me how you’d scream. Helpless little American, thinks his name is Bucky – but he’s nothing. Nothing more than an asset,” 

“I want a phone call,” Bucky says, trying to hold his nerve. 

“Of course, all assets can be destroyed. Liquidated,” Zemo mentions casually, bringing a set of files to Bucky’s attention: he opens them, not sharing the contents. They make him smile, though. “. . . But we did spend an awful lot of time on you,”  
“You mean you and Hydra?” Bucky asks, eyes flicking to where Zemo stated the invisible observation window is situated. Zemo follows his gaze, and tilts his head to one side.  
“It’s just you, me, and Rumlow,” He says softly. Bucky averts his gaze from the area where the observation window is sharply. He swears if he listens hard enough, he can hear Rumlow’s laughter; he feels his fingers on his face, touching his hair, his neck, his knees, his thighs – he can feel it. His skin crawls, and he feels his restraints bite, suddenly feeling much too small. His breathing picks up significantly. 

“. . . Strange, isn’t it? How effective fear is for controlling men,” Zemo says fondly.  
“Fuck you,” Bucky says quietly, but he can’t look him in the eye. He can barely keep his breathing even, and deep, right now.  
“It was so easy to manipulate Stark into handing you over. I can be very convincing – my father told me, son, you’ve got a gift – so I used it to become a senator. Not strictly legal, or orthodox, but – my methods work,” Zemo mentions. Bucky frowns, bringing his eyes up. Zemo brushes the fingers of his opposite hand against his ring, drawing Bucky’s eye, yet again. 

“. . . My methods always work. I’m very _persuasive_ , you see. So when I say we’ve spent too much time, and money, and effort, on you, just to let you go . . .”

His voice trails off, calculated in its tone: Bucky processes his words, and feels his body slowly become more rigid. _He can’t mean that. He can’t do that._

“I mean it. We can’t just let you go. You’re one of a kind, Winter Soldier. Our most successful experimental subject, and asset. And once the appropriate equipment arrives, we intend to bring you back to us, a template for future work, and a means to increase our power. One hundred percent compliant, one hundred percent effective – one hundred percent free of memories,” The senator tells him, his voice earnest, as if repeating campaign rhetoric. 

Bucky swallows, but that doesn’t stop his nausea: the muscles in his forearm contract randomly and in quick succession, twitching, shivering; pain and discomfort shoot through him, as he tries to do the same with his other upper limb, only to find that there’s nothing there. It affects him almost as much as Zemo’s words. It feels _horrible_. 

“You must miss us, surely?” 

Bucky looks up sharply from his fingers to Zemo’s face: he’s smiling brightly, like he’s greeting an old friend. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s ever met him, before – he’s unable to remember doing so – but yet again, something in Zemo’s facial expression tells him that he has. Or rather, Zemo has delighted in seeing his torture, and brainwashing, and coercion. _Even better than his father’s bedtime stories._

Bucky hasn’t made a sound for almost a minute, just twitching, and controlling his breathing: he knows that Zemo wants an answer, _he actually wants an answer, that son of a bitch-_

He summons all his courage, to look right at Zemo’s face, as he says:  
“. . . I’ve remembered before. I can do it again,” 

Zemo smiles wider, lacing his fingers together, unnervingly silent, as he surveys Bucky, looking him up and down.  
“Technology has moved on. And . . .” He shifts his fingers, contacting the yellow stone on his ring again, “. . . This time, I’m in control. Believe me, I can make you do anything. I made the public elect me, after my predecessor’s untimely death. I made the staff here invite me in, and give me my own office, on the top floor. Hell, I made Stark turn against Rogers. Believe me when I say, I can make you do anything. And I will,” Zemo says, his tone conversational and light, as if he’s not tearing Bucky’s world apart, “. . . In fact, I might make you kill Rogers. Third time’s a charm. And he’ll never see you coming,” 

Bucky yanks hard on the chain fastening him to the table: it holds fast and he grunts, letting out a guttural noise of rage and despair as he pulls on it. He only succeeds on hurting his wrist, bruising and reddening it, with repeated blows. 

“Please, Winter Soldier – you needn’t struggle. This is what’s best for you, in the long run. Don’t you want to do what’s best for this country?”  
“You can’t do this,” He says, slamming his fist down on the table, a wild look in his eyes. “I – I deserve a lawyer, a fair trial-”  
“Those are for American citizens. _People_. You’re nothing but an asset, do you understand? Do you remember that, yet?”  
“No – I don’t deserve this,” He swallows, the words stuck in his throat for a second, when he sees the genuine pleasure on the senator’s face at his anguish. His affirmations don’t hold up well, faced with his worst fear. He still fights to repeat them mentally, though.  
“Your therapist has already tried to contact us, a doctor . . .” He refers to his notes. “ . . . Franklin. He was refused visitation. As was your lawyer – Miss Walters is very persistent, but I’m afraid you won’t be going to trial. See, you would be given the death penalty,” 

Even amongst all the horrible things he’s learning, Bucky momentarily feels a small spark of joy, knowing that Franklin is alive, and still fighting for him; he wasn’t killed, in Rumlow’s haste to get to him. It’s just one death he isn’t responsible for – yet. 

Bucky doesn’t know a Miss. Walters, though – he didn’t know he had a lawyer, because he hasn't been allowed to see one. But he does know one thing: “I’d take it, over Hydra laying a fucking finger on me, ever again,” 

Zemo looks down, his eternal smile not faltering even slightly. This is Christmas, for him. He gets up, slipping his hands into his pockets, and takes a slow stroll around the room. Bucky cranes his neck to look at him, feeling even more vulnerable, as Zemo settles directly behind him. He decides to just stare straight ahead, not wanting to flinch in the face of all the awful things that Zemo has planned for him. 

“. . . I’m sure you would, Winter Soldier,” Zemo’s voice tells him, silky and low, right beside his left ear. His attempt to remain still fails, as he flinches. "But that won't stop us. Nothing will. Certainly not whether you want it, or not,"  
“I’m not – I, my – name is – my name is-” He stumbles over his words, and they grow quieter, below a whisper, until he just has to repeat in his head that _his name is Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant Barnes, 32557038-_

Zemo leaves him to his anxiety and fear, just for one agonisingly long and painful minute, before he asks in a gentle voice: “Are you ready to comply?” 

Bucky bites his lip. He can’t speak. He would sign it, but he can’t. He shakes his head. 

Zemo puts one hand on his right shoulder, and he strains to avoid it, but the grip is iron-clad and painfully strong. 

“. . . You will be,”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for keeping up with this!! More's coming on Monday. Again, this was entirely written before details from the civil war teaser trailer circulated on the internet. 
> 
> Reread the content warnings for this fic before you read this chapter to refresh yourself, is what I'd say, maybe - just in case!!

By the time Natasha comes back in from her long phone call outside on a second burner phone, Steve and Sam have both been to the laundrette across the street, washing their suits as covertly as possible, wearing as many layers as they can without drawing any attention, to hide their identities. They don’t worry much, though: there’s no one around, in the laundrette; the streets are virtually empty, by the time they emerge. 

Her phone call took a long time: they can see, from her face, that it was an arduous task. They each look up from their preparation: Sam is performing checks on his wings; Clint is checking his roster of arrows, making sure he has enough, and the required trick arrows; Steve spends most of the time fastening various straps, and staring down at his shield, wondering whether he’s even worthy of carrying it, anymore. He gazes at her expectantly, noticing that her expression is difficult to read – not negative, but not outwardly optimistic. 

“It’s set. I called Jennifer – she agreed to let me impersonate her. She said she’ll stay indoors the next couple of days, but she doesn’t want to know why I have to steal her identity,” She says, with a smirk.  
“You’re sure she won’t talk?” Steve says, nervously chewing on his bottom lip. The job means too much to him. He can barely think straight.  
“Jen and I are good friends. We have been since Bruce went off the radar – she’s one of the only people he cares about, other than Betty. And she doesn’t like what’s happening to Bucky, either. Called it a _miscarriage of justice_ ,” Natasha quotes.  
“Why can’t we just send her in, then?” Clint asks.  
“She’s strong. But if it kicks off, you won’t want her in there. You’ll want me. Espionage isn’t my only skill,”  
“. . . Fair enough,” Clint says, remembering Natasha’s go at _cognitive recalibration_.

“What about the prison?” Steve asks, not wanting to sound impatient, but at the same time feeling the reality of Bucky’s incarceration bearing down on him like a physical weight, seemingly growing by the second. Natasha sighs.  
“They said they’re refusing me – refusing _Jennifer Walters_ visitation,” She replies.  
“But she’s his lawyer, far as they know – it’s unconstitutional for them to refuse him a lawyer, right?” Sam says, looking between Steve and Natasha with a deep frown.  
“They told me to call another department with a case reference, which they wouldn’t give me – then they told me to write to senator Zemo, of all people, about it,” She says, voice laced with disgust. “Looks like he’s got James on lockdown. Sounded from what they said like he was there, at the facility,” She mentions.  
“. . . That can’t be good,” Clint says, spinning around on the desk chair to face her, looking equally concerned, now. Concerned enough to stop fiddling with his lock-pick arrow, for a moment.  
“We need to do this as soon as possible. Do you still think you can get us an in?” Steve asks anxiously. 

Natasha smirks, and begins to take off her civilian jacket, moving towards the bathroom. For the first time, Steve notices curiously that she’s carrying a plastic bag. He’s too wrapped up in his thoughts to be all that observant, right now.  
“Don’t worry. I can get in. You guys can hitch a ride in my briefcase,” She says, removing a sharp suit jacket from the bag. “What do you think? – Lawyer chic?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as she opens the bathroom door.  
“I think it’s gonna work,” Sam comments, sounding confident.  
“Still not crazy about the ‘shrinking down to the size of an ant’ thing,” Clint comments.  
Steve sighs. “You don’t even have to do it. You’re the getaway driver,” He mentions. Clint just hums, and spins around on the chair to face his arrows again. 

He’s clearly not so hot on the idea of being left out of the lion’s share of the action, either. They plan on hiring a car, picking up Scott and Hope, and shrinking Sam and Steve down to smuggle them into the facility in Natasha’s briefcase. Scott assured them over the phone that Hope would be able to fry certain security measures, using her ants; Scott will use his to block certain security cameras, before they return Steve and Sam to their regular size. From there, Steve and Sam will follow the blueprints that Scott managed to recover by hacking the facility, to locate Bucky’s cell, while they’re distracted by trying to get Natasha to leave, without seeing Bucky. Sam will concentrate on disengaging security measures to help them leave undetected, while Steve will go directly to Bucky. 

If they’re lucky, the staff will let Natasha see Bucky, even though they told her they couldn’t; they can break him out, when he’s removed from his cell, and in transit. If not, there are ways around that. 

The part of the plan giving Clint grief is the fact he may not have to shoot a single arrow – he meant it when he said he wanted to be a part of this fight. It took Steve a whole two full-length colour washes to convince Clint that he shouldn’t have to go down for this, if it goes horrifically wrong. Steve knows there’s still a possibility, given the lack of really solid evidence against Clint, that he could return to his family after this scandal has died down. Zemo only wanted him locked up so he couldn’t aid Steve – or more specifically, Bucky – after all. He still hasn’t done much wrong, except escaping custody, for a crime he didn’t commit. 

And that’s why Steve wants him on the outside. It’s not that he doesn’t value the others, as much – in fact, he wishes they weren’t so involved, and didn’t have to suffer so much; he wishes Natasha had somewhere safe to go; he wishes Sam’s Mom and brother weren’t hurt by the police meant to protect them. It’s just that he doesn’t want to see Clint’s family torn apart, too, by this. 

Steve’s family’s already been ripped to shreds – the Avengers disbanded, and hurt; Bucky imprisoned, suffering god knows what, right now. He won’t see it happen to another one of his friends, no matter how much Clint argues. He’s the Captain, and this is on him. He gets the final word, though he knows it might be selfish. He’s beyond caring, at this point. 

Steve realises someone’s talking to him. He glances up, catching the end of a sentence – 

“-take the first shift sleeping. You and Sam take the bed first. Clint and I have some catching up to do, anyway. We’ll keep watch,” Natasha says, folding up her jacket.  
“Does that mean we’re gonna have to share a bed afterwards? – Because you steal the covers something rotten, Tasha,” Clint complains.  
“Or you could just let me have the whole bed. Just a suggestion,” Natasha points out. Clint sighs, and grabs his bow and a jacket, before heading out.  
Steve and Sam get ready to sleep in silence: they don’t have many spare clothes, so it’s not a particularly long time before they both settle in. Steve almost says something, when Sam picks the side Bucky usually sleeps on. He doesn’t know if he can take it, but he keeps his mouth shut. 

He doesn’t sleep much. Every time he drifts off, it’s only a few minutes later when he opens his eyes, praying that it’s hours later: he just wants to get to Bucky, and help him get out of prison. He doesn’t deserve to be there, and it’s probably not doing his mental health a world of good – no therapist, and solitary confinement, according to the recording ants Scott and Hope sent out to scope the prison staff – and that’s without considering the fact that Zemo is there, with his reality-altering capabilities. 

Steve turns over reluctantly, to face Sam, whose face is largely relaxed with sleep – but with one of his hands buried under the pillow, and a crease between his brows, Steve knows it can’t be a very restful sleep. Steve is the one doing this to him – to all of his friends. Logically, he knows it’s probably Zemo’s fault that they’ve ended up here. But he can’t help but feel guilty. 

The thing is, Steve can’t figure out where Zemo’s manipulation ends, and where his own mistakes take over; where the will of people like Tony, and Bucky, take over. Did Bucky fail to escape just through misfortune, or did Zemo alter the odds, allowing Rumlow’s men to torture him, and stuff him in a body bag? 

. . . Did Tony want Bucky to end up in jail from the very beginning, or did Zemo twist his uneasiness when faced with a man he thought killed his parents, until the point where he was rabid for revenge? – Did Tony truly deserve Steve’s rage, or was he no more in control than Bucky was, when he killed his parents, originally? 

Steve dismisses that last idea, at least. In order for Zemo to work with Tony, he had to have been harbouring mistrust and ill-will towards Bucky; he wouldn’t have been able to exploit it, if not. Bucky, on the other hand, would never have chosen to kill Howard, and his wife; would never have chosen to try and kill the people he loves, and holds dear. There’s no way Bucky would have ever chosen to hurt Steve. 

Tony might not be entirely to blame, here. But it’s not the same. Maybe one day he can sympathise with Bucky, at least . . . But that’s only if they take Zemo’s ring away, and expose him to the world, to clear all of their names – and get Bucky’s case dismissed – or at least a fair trial, for him. Steve has no doubt he’d be found innocent. A jury could never see what he’s seen and think he was compliant by choice. 

He remembers the pictures from Bucky’s files, and screws his eyes shut: he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, face contorting, as he tries to forget them; tries to forget the first few nights Bucky stayed with him. He stayed in another room, to begin with – but after Steve had to get up for him three or four times a night, after hearing his scream, he asked to come to Steve’s room. It didn’t stop the night-terrors – not for a while. During nightmares Bucky remains rigidly still, but during night terrors, it’s another story. 

Steve turns over again, away from Sam, as he tries to forget them – but it’s no use. His memory is crystal clear, the sound of Bucky’s moans and sobs ringing like cut-glass between his ears like they’re the only thing there, until the thought occurs to him, _what if that’s what he’s facing now? What if he’s alone, and panicking, and it’s your fault?_

He hears a few words that haunt him, that Bucky used to repeat over and over while unconscious, until Steve roused him, and he broke down crying until he seemingly had no emotion left to put out into the air – things like _please_ , and _stop_ , and _I don’t want it, I won’t do it, please don’t make me, don’t touch me-_

When Steve first brought him in, Bucky thought Steve was going to kill him. He didn’t shake the notion for weeks. Once, he admitted he didn’t want to shake it - only once, but it was terrifying, for both of them. Which is why Steve’s extremely worried that his therapist hasn’t been allowed into the facility, to treat him. He’s made a lot of good headway – but he can still be triggered. In more ways than one. 

He sits up abruptly, angrily pulling back the blanket, and standing up: he stretches, and paces around the room for a few moments, distracting himself from his hideous worrying with the action. He concentrates on the minute fibres in the carpet beneath his feet; the stir of the air, due to the bathroom fan; the sound of Sam’s breathing. He places his hands on his hips, and stares out of the bathroom window, through the open door: all he can see are trees, and a parking lot. Beyond that, more fields. It just keeps going on. 

He sighs, and makes his way to the outside door, exiting as quietly as possible: he immediately sees Clint and Natasha, sharing a couple of beers, on the balcony outside the room, exchanging a few muted words.  
“Cap,” Clint says, mildly surprised.  
“Can’t sleep?” Natasha asks. Steve just shrugs. Clint hands him a bottle of beer from a six-pack.  
“Big day tomorrow,” Steve reminds them.  
“You can’t get drunk,” Natasha points out.  
“I was talking about you guys,”  
“I can handle my liquor. And as long as Clint’s able to drive . . .” She says, before adding, “Actually, on second thoughts, better make that first one your last,” She tells Clint with a smirk. Steve smiles weakly.  
“That’s slander. Don’t you remember Boston?” Clint asks her. She raises an eyebrow.  
“Unfortunately. I’m still wondering how you remember it, though,” She points out. He sighs, and concedes that one with a shrug.  
“If you’re not sleeping then can I sleep?” Clint asks Steve.  
“Go ahead,” Steve agrees. Clint salutes him at a jaunty angle, and disappears into the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

There’s a comfortable silence between Steve and Natasha, as he opens his beer: he never really understood drinking culture in the 21st century, but it’s a good crutch, he guesses. He knows Natasha doesn’t really get drunk, either. 

“He’ll be alright, you know. James is tough,” She says, staring out across the parking lot, leaning her forearms on the railing of the balcony. Steve mimics her movement, but turns his head to look at her silently, for a moment. Her expression is calm, and knowing: it makes him feel less anxious, even to look at. For the first time in a few days, she looks in control; he guesses that, with a dangerous mission on the horizon, she feels more at home. 

“I don’t know that,” He says honestly, looking down at the beer in his hands. He peels the label a little.  
“I do. I’ve seen it,” She says vaguely. “So have you. The amount of times he was brought into Hydra facilities on purpose, and escaped – that was his MO for months. We should be the ones worrying here – we might get to his cell, and find he’s escaped already,” She points out. Steve smiles at the idea. They both know this isn’t the same as before, but it’s a nice thought.  
“I guess we’ll have Scott and Hope keep a listen out for news of that using their, uh . . . Ants,” Steve says, still perturbed at the idea of _Ant-Man_ and _Wasp_ being two new acquisitions to his team. He can’t believe he agreed to be shrunk down to sneak into the facility. 

He thinks on Natasha’s words; replays them in his mind. He pauses for a few more moments, as she takes a sip, and finally asks:  
“You’ve seen it?” 

She pauses, and turning to look him in the eye. She looks . . . Almost reticent.  
“Yes,” She answers finally. He licks his lips, trying to imagine what she’s taking about. But as he watches her expression carefully, it dawns on him what she means.  
“. . . You mean before he came back with me,” He gathers, “And before Project Insight,”  
She nods; he can’t help the way his mouth falls slowly open. 

He lets out a harsh breath: he feels a little like he’s just been hit.  
“Why didn’t you say before?” He breathes. “When you were telling me about how he shot you?”  
“I didn’t want you to think I was involved in his _treatment_ ,” She says.  
“Were you?” He asks, into the stillness of the night. She ducks her head.  
“Not in any decision making. I only saw him – once or twice. Before he shot me,” She admits. He wasn’t the only one betrayed, by what Hydra did to Bucky. “I tried to help him,” She adds softly.  
“. . . What was it like?” Steve asks, because he has to know. Even now, he knows that neither he nor Bucky really know the extent of what happened to him, during the last 70 years. 

“I didn’t remember that well. I still don’t – but . . . We had outside outfits that used the red room facilities for experiments. Human trials . . . It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. But just once, I was passing by the labs and I could hear . . .” She shakes her head. “Something. Groaning, sobbing. I don’t know. Usually it was silent. I wouldn’t have gone inside, but the door was open, and I wanted to see if protocol was being followed, so I decided to see what was happening,” 

Steve swallows. Even if he doesn’t yet know the particulars of what happened next, he knows that it’s going to be horrific to hear. 

“He was in one of the procedure rooms. On an operating table, face down, I could see his spine. They were doing something – there were all these pins, the place stank of antiseptic and blood, and he wouldn’t stop asking for-” She sighs, and turns her head, looking him in the eye. “For you, although I didn't realise it, at the time. For anyone, for help, but he thought I was you, because he couldn’t see. I can’t remember what year it was, but – he remembered you for decades, at least. Remembered your name,”  
“What did you do?” He asks, his voice thick with emotion.  
“. . . I upped the anaesthetic. He was in pain. I put him to sleep. I didn’t think he’d last the night, the way they just . . . Left him, like that . . . The next I saw of him, he was being marched out of the facility. I only made eye contact with him once, his face was totally blank – skip several decades, he’s shooting at me, for the first time,” She says, bitterly. “Some thank-you,” 

Steve sighs, hanging his head: he doesn’t blame her for not sharing the story, now – it fits, with Wanda and Bucky’s individual renditions of the procedure Hydra performed on him, so they could control when he slept; install the _sputnik_ trigger. 

“So I’ve seen him come through something like this before. Seen it with my own eyes. And so have you, after you rescued him in the war. He survives. Like me. No one makes it out of the red room alive without earning that skill first,” She says. “If they didn’t have it before,” 

Steve sighs, and wipes at his eyes, a little: she averts her eyes, looking up at the stars: they’re not usually visible in the city, but if they’re lucky, they can see them upstate. Steve follows her gaze: from where they are, it’s almost as if they haven’t moved at all; almost like they’re home, and nothing has happened. He can almost pretend Bucky is beside him, his arm humming gently as he points out his favourite constellations. He’s got a real thing for stars. Steve thinks it’s their constancy. People change, _years_ change, but stars never do. 

“Thank you,” He says to her eventually. She glances at him, but he continues to look up at the sky, not meeting her gaze. “It’s not easy for you to share,” He points out. She smiles sadly, snorting gently.  
“I’ve had to get used to it. Pretty quickly, over the last couple of weeks, actually,” She points out. “. . . It’s good for me. I don’t like it, but I’m trying to learn. It seems so easy for everyone else. But my secrets are my currency. I don’t give them away for nothing,”  
“You just did, for me,” He mentions, looking down at her – her smile becomes more morose.  
“I just bought you peace of mind,” She points out. 

He hums – gradually, he reaches towards her; she watches his hand, and nods almost imperceptibly, before he places it on her shoulder.  
“Don’t let anyone tell you you’re a bad person, Natasha,” He tells her. She looks doubtful. “Or a bad friend. I don’t know what I’d have done without you,”  
“You’d be in dead. Or in prison,” She points out, with a smile. But the truth is, she’s happy he said _friend_. She never really thinks of herself as anything to anyone, other than an _ally_.  
“Oh, yeah,” He says with a smile, as if the thought only just occurred to him. She hits him lightly in the side, and for a minute, they’re just two friends sharing a beer, laughing and joking, enjoying the youth that the world saw fit to take from them both. 

When their laughter dies down, and they’ve downed a little more of their drinks, Steve finally asks:  
“We can do this, can’t we? . . . Take down Hydra?” He asks. She sees right through him.  
“We can get him back,” She says, sounding certain. 

That’s enough for Steve. 

-

Natasha taps her fingers on the reception desk: her nails, freshly-painted a deep blue to match her suit, shine in the white bar lights. She grips onto her briefcase, as she watches the desk sergeant frown at his computer.  
“. . . I’m sorry, Miss. Walters, we don’t seem to have approved your visit,”  
“That can’t be. I phoned ahead to confirm the visit. I have a client to speak with, as is his constitutional right. I’m his lawyer,” Natasha dismisses quickly, despite knowing she’ll still most likely be refused visitation with Bucky. 

The desk sergeant looks up at her judgemental gaze, and swallows.  
“I’ll . . . Go talk to my superior. I’ll just be a second,” He says. She nods once, but doesn’t say anything. 

As soon as he disappears into the back office, she surreptitiously touches her hand to the comms device in her ear, which is invisible – like her facial features – due to the mask she’s wearing in order to look like Bruce’s lawyer cousin, Jennifer Walters.  
“We’re clear. Air vent at 9 o’clock,” She murmurs, knowing that Scott, Hope, Sam and Steve will listen to her.  
“10:4,” She hears Steve’s voice say, though it’s barely a whisper – there are no staff watching them currently, but there are cameras everywhere, which they’re all hyper-aware of. They’re only going to be a problem until Scott and Hope use their ants to cover them, and to eventually fry them entirely, ready for their way out of the facility with Bucky in tow. 

She doesn’t turn her head, remaining completely still, as she notices a flying ant in her peripheral vision: she takes a second to open up her briefcase, making a show of taking out a contract she mocked up to prove Jennifer Walters’ status as Bucky’s lawyer, for the cameras. In reality, she’s shielding Hope, who’s carrying Sam, and Scott, who’s escorting Steve on the back of an ant, towards the air vent. Despite the tense nature of the situation, she hides a smirk behind the fake contract at the ridiculousness of this plan. She has to admit, though, no one would be looking for _that_. 

That’s why her journey into the facility has been so easy, so far: a small, lead-lined box disguised as a pencil case was enough to shield the stowaways from the scanners she put her briefcase through; the shape-shifting technology, designed all-around for stealth and camouflage, didn’t set off the metal detector at all. Her blonde wig is one of the best she owns, and the suit is believable, for a lawyer as good at her job as Jennifer is (Natasha having needed her counsel a few times; she's heard many of her stories, over cocktails). She didn’t even break a sweat. 

The desk sergeant returns with another guard in tow: she looks between them, as he explains:  
“This is my commanding officer. He needs to discuss the particulars of your client’s charges with you – and why you’re not allowed visitation with him, given his status,”  
“His _status_ is that he’s currently a prisoner of the United States government, being held without access to legal counsel,” She points out, folding her arms, and making a show of becoming irate.  
“Even so, visitation has been revoked for inmate Barnes,” The commanding officer says. She smiles bitterly at them both, eyes narrowing.  
“We’ll see about that,” She says. 

She’s not a lawyer, but she’s learned enough to roast this guy: she follows him to a meeting room, and prepares to keep him and his colleagues as distracted as possible, for as long as possible. 

-

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?!” Steve yells in Scott’s ear over the buffeting winds: riding on the back of an ant isn’t the easiest, most comfortable way to travel. Steve feels like he’s riding the cyclone at Coney Island, again. He hasn’t felt this queasy since then, it feels like.  
“Anthony Junior knows the way!” Scott calls back, and Steve’s pretty sure he can see a smirk through his helmet. “Just kidding – I’ve got the blueprints memorised,”  
“Actually _I’ve_ got them memorised, you’re following me,” Hope says calmly over the comms. Up ahead, Steve can see her holding onto Sam by both hands. 

They make their way through the ventilation shaft as quickly as possible, Hope leading the way efficiently – Steve wonders why these two haven’t been officially recruited onto the Avengers roster, yet, given that they’re clearly mission-ready. Maybe if the Avengers can reform, they can join up. If they’re not busy planning elaborate heists. 

“Next vent is the corridor to security – Sam and I will take that one. I’ll find a way to shut down the cameras for good, he’ll disable the security measures to let you out!” Hope tells them, slowing up next to about the millionth vent they’ve seen – honestly, Steve can’t tell any of them apart. Everything is extremely disorientating, at this size. 

“Don’t forget to give me one of those disc things – it’s been fun, but I prefer carrying people to being carried!” Sam calls to her. Steve sees her smirk, as Scott hovers near the vent, waiting for them to exit.  
“Sam, be careful,” Steve reminds him.  
“Don’t sweat it, Cap – I’m on it,” Sam tells him. 

“Good luck,” Hope says.  
“Thank you,” Scott says.  
“I was talking to Cap, but okay,” She shrugs.  
“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve replies politely. She smiles, and she and Sam leave through the vent without another word. 

“Alright, not far – solitary is another twenty vents away!” Scott calls back to Steve. He nods, clinging on for dear life. This isn’t exactly the smoothest start to a mission he’s ever experienced - but then again, they haven’t been detected, that they know of. _Yet_. 

“So you really think you can do this?” Scott asks, not unkindly. In fact, since they met, Scott’s been asking him about all the different missions he’s done – during the war, on US soil, tanking Project Insight – he’s been impressed by Steve’s credentials, and he's a huge fan. So he’s just asking Steve’s honest opinion.  
“Yeah. I do,” He says.  
“For him?” Scott asks.  
“Yeah,” Steve answers again, after a pause.  
“I get it. I’d do anything for my family,” He says. Steve eyes him curiously – he didn’t know Scott had one. He doesn’t know a lot about him at all, actually. But he must have a lot of faith in Sam, or he must really believe in this, to be here at all, when he’s got a family.  
“Right,” Steve agrees, as the air currents buffet them some more. Steve’s glad he’s got his helmet on, at this point; he feels like he’s about to be catapulted into the steel surrounding them at any moment. 

“This one! - whoa, AJ,” Scott says, slowing the ant’s progress as they near yet another vent that looks identical. “The little guys said he’d be in cell 23. Let me get them to crowd on the security cameras before you set foot down there,” He says, and reaches for a button on his helmet, adapted to access an earpiece he uses for communicating with ants. Steve half thinks he’s making it up – but after having seen, and _experienced_ , Scott and Hope’s ability to shrink, he can just about believe anything they throw at him, now. He has to admit, the 'crazy ants' are definitely going to come in handy, once Hope has them in position, to get them out of there. 

“Got everything you need?” Scott asks, landing the ant on the bottom of the ventilation shaft. Steve climbs off, willing his legs to be less shaky – both from the experience he’s just had, and from nervousness. He doesn’t know what state Bucky’s going to be in, when he gets to him.  
“I think so, yeah,” Steve says, adjusting the strap on the bag he’s brought with him: it contains a couple of useful items, including Bucky’s old arm – Steve figures they will have confiscated the new one, given that it has advanced weaponry capabilities. 

And, besides – it looks as if it had a GPS tracker in it, anyway. And it was used to hurt him. Bucky probably wouldn’t be too thrilled at using it, now. So Steve’s brought the old one, in case he wants, or needs, to use it. 

“. . . Alright. We’ve got you covered,” Scott says, nodding to Steve – he hands him a small disc. “Press the button in the middle when you want to get big again,” He says. Steve raises an eyebrow at him. “Try to do it before you hit the floor,” He adds. Steve considers the disc for a second, hoping it works.

“Thanks for your help, Scott,” He says, reaching to shake his hand. Scott takes it with a smile.  
“Can I tell my daughter about this?” Scott asks, shaking his hand firmly.  
“Absolutely not,” Steve says. Scott looks put out – so he says, “. . . Alright, sure. But she can’t tell anyone,”  
“Awesome,” 

Steve steps up to the vent, and takes a step through one of the bars: he stands on the outside, and looks down – it sure does look like a long way, from this height.  
“Kind of like a parachute jump without the parachute, right?” Scott says sympathetically. Steve look back at him with a smirk.  
“Nope,” He says. “That’s a lot scarier. Believe me,” 

He launches himself from the vent, jumping off and letting his feet face the floor. A fraction of a second later, he hits the button in the centre of the disc, and is overcome by the queasy sensation of his body returning to normal size; the effect of gravity catches up with him, and he slumps onto the floor, landing on one knee, fist pressed to the floor. It’s a little bumpier than he’d expect – but as he stands up, and looks up at Scott staring at him through the vent, he raises two thumbs up to him. Scott does the same back at him. 

Steve runs along the corridor: there are only cells on one side, and each has a small window, covered from the outside by a moveable panel. It takes him just a few seconds to run past about fifteen cells, and reach number 23. 

Looking both ways first, he tugs at the handle on the panel on the outside of the cell, revealing the inside. For a brief second there’s absolutely no movement in the cell: the entire thing, white and padded, is illuminated by a sickly white bar light. Steve’s frantic eyes have trouble observing Bucky: he’s lying very still on the padded bench, tucked up into himself, facing away from the door. His hair is wild and his hand is presumably covering his eyes from the light. Steve thinks he’d probably try to sleep his way through this nightmare as much as possible, too. 

He stirs slightly when he hears the noise of the panel opening: Steve sees him tense, even though he doesn’t turn to face the door. He doesn’t want to look at whoever he thinks it is. Steve gulps. 

“Bucky?” He asks cautiously. Bucky starts, and sits up: he turns to face Steve, eyes wide, as they search out the panel. When he sees Steve’s face, he brings his hand to his mouth, shocked. He jumps up immediately, bare feet padding across the floor and up to the panel.  
“Steve?!” He hisses. “What the fuck are you doing here, Stevie?”  
“Breaking you out!” He replies. Bucky shushes him.  
“AIM agents, next door – I can hear them yelling sometimes, they might hear us,” Bucky tells him. Steve nods, looking Bucky up and down: his blue jumpsuit makes his skin look pale in comparison, the white shirt underneath doing nothing to help the sickly effect. His scruff is starting to get a little long, and he clearly can’t groom his hair very well with one hand – or perhaps he doesn’t want to. He looks very tired. Worn-out, and exhausted. 

“How the fuck are you gonna move the door?” Bucky asks, considering Steve’s shield over his shoulder, and looking down as far as he can through the panel in the door, and at his bag. Steve grins.  
“I know a guy,” He says, opening the bag up, “Who makes trick arrows,” 

He pulls an arrow from the bag, and brings it up to the lock on Bucky’s door: automatically, it seals to the metal, feeding a lock-picking device into the lock. Within seconds, it beeps triumphantly, and the door swings open. Steve is accosted by Bucky, who wraps his arm very tightly around Steve’s waist, lifting him off his feet on its own, with his ferocity. 

Steve gasps with the impact, but laughs quietly, bringing his arms up to tug Bucky into a tight hug back. Bucky lowers him to the floor, again, and fits his head over Steve’s shoulder.  
“I didn’t – Steve, I wasn’t gonna let him-” He mutters into Steve’s ear. “I won’t go back, Stevie, I won’t let him-”  
“Hey-” Steve says, bringing a hand up to stroke Bucky’s unruly hair. “Back to what?” He asks, concerned. Bucky gulps, and shakes his head, clearing his mind.  
“Zemo. He’s here,” Bucky tells Steve.  
“Right now?” Steve asks, getting down to business again. He goes for his bag, again, as Bucky replies:  
“He’s got an office. Top floor. Accessible via the stairwell, or the elevator,” Bucky explains. “We have to get him, we have to-”  
“We have to get you out,” Steve says, offering Bucky his old metal arm from his bag. Bucky looks at it, his expression conflicted.  
“I – can’t use it, Steve,” He says. “They switched off my neural implant – I have to have it switched on before I can use it again. Takes a while to boot up. It’s not worth the time,” Bucky warns him. Steve lowers the bag.  
“Alright. Later then,” He says – at that moment, the lights drop, and red emergency lights come on all around them. Bucky flinches, grabbing Steve’s hand tightly with his hand in shock and surprise – Steve clings on back, but he’s smiling.  
“It’s Hope – a new friend. Her and Sam have disabled the security,”  
“Sam’s here?” Bucky asks, surprised.  
“And Natasha,” Steve says – he removes his comms device from his ear, and hands it to Bucky, who puts it in his ear immediately. “Say hi, Bucky,”  
“Hi, Bucky,” Bucky says, with a quick smile.  
“Jerk,” Steve reprimands fondly. “. . . Come on. This way,” 

Bucky follows him along the corridor, stepping in stride with him: his legs ache from being bunched up on a bench not quite long enough for him. He didn’t want to sleep in any position other than having his knees brought up to his chest as much as his jumpsuit would allow, so his muscles are paying the price, now. He knows the feeling will be gone within a few seconds. 

“. . . Zemo said he was gonna brainwash me again. Said he was gonna make it happen because he’s _persuasive_ ,” Bucky mutters.  
“He’s got a ring – with a yellow stone set in it. It’s an infinity stone. It allows him to manipulate reality, to control people,” Steve explains quickly.  
“What?! – Steve, we’ve gotta get this asshole right now!” He says, stopping short – he knows the stairs are the opposite way to the direction they’re travelling in.  
“Buck, it’s too dangerous – we’ve gotta regroup, they know we’re here, now-”  
“He’s a sitting duck up there, Steve,” Bucky points out, gesturing toward the emergency stairs.  
“No,” Steve says, grabbing Bucky’s hand, and looking into his eyes: his face is one of desperation, and love, mixed for a heady combination that Bucky can’t tear his eyes from. “I can’t lose you – not like this. Not again. You’re coming home with me, and that’s-”

It happens so fast, that Steve can’t even reach for his shield. His head turns at the sound of a shout, followed by gunshots. Bucky can’t comprehend what’s happening, and he can comprehend so much, in a very, _very_ short space of time. It’s just that this isn’t real. The spray of blood across his face, his clothes, can’t be real. It can’t be, because Steve said he was coming home with him, and Steve doesn’t lie to him; doesn’t break his promises, without making it right. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that Steve can’t make this right. They're never going home together.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around!! I'm sorry for ending the last chapter that way. Just a warning that this chapter isn't very cheery, either. 
> 
> Thanks for being so supportive and your kind words, too, you guys really are the best!!

Steve’s never coming home with him. 

He falls like a stone before Bucky’s eyes, the scent of blood and gun smoke filling the space between them with a metallic bite that makes Bucky feel at the same time at home, and impossibly uncomfortable. He’s used to it. But not like this – _not like this, no-_

Steve slips to his knees, and Bucky can barely see him for the red: the spray of it, the tiny droplets flying, hitting Bucky’s blue jumpsuit, so he’s red, and white, and blue, just like Steve, just like Steve’s uniform, drenched in blood. Bucky falls to his knees beside Steve, catching him as he falls onto his back, one of his hands pushing his helmet off to unobscure his vision; the other one desperately pressed to his neck, which is spurting blood in time with his rapidly beating heart, pumping the life out of him at an alarming rate. 

Bucky shakes his head, his remaining arm clinging onto Steve, wrapping around him so that his hand is pressed on top of Steve’s hand, trying to stem the extremely rapid, rhythmic flow of blood from his dead-weight body. 

Steve’s eyes are red-rimmed, and his face sprayed with his own blood, and Bucky knows that his own face is probably crumpled and contorted in ways that aren’t helping to reassure Steve at all – he doesn’t know that there’s anything he can do that will make Steve feel better. He doesn’t know that there’s anything he can do to help him, with a shot to the neck, and two shots to the only vulnerable area of his chest (and only when faced with high-calibre rounds, at that). It’s an area only someone who intimately knows Steve’s suit would be able to identify, and hit. 

Steve’s gaze is wild, staring up at Bucky, like he can see the end of the world in his eyes – like he can see everything they might have done, if they’d had more time; if not for the ice, and the torture and isolation they’ve both undergone, in their own separate ways. Steve looks at Bucky like he wants his face, covered in arterial blood, to leave a lasting impression on his eyes, even after they grow dull. 

“Steve – Stevie – hey, no – Steve-” Bucky’s muttering over and over, vaguely aware that he’s rocking slightly, cradling Steve as the blood, like the years they’ve wasted, slips through their fingers at an horrifying rate. Every pulse lets them know _it’s too late_ – this is all they have left, now. And Steve wants to say something. 

He can’t talk – when he slips his hand out from under Bucky’s, Bucky shakes his hand frantically, but doesn’t have a spare hand to make Steve go back to stemming the blood. It leaks more freely, now. Bucky can already feel some drying under his fingernails. It’s already the past. Steve’s already gone, and he’s still here. Bucky doesn’t know what’s now. It’s hard to know if this is real. 

But Steve mouths – _Zemo. Stop Hydra –_

Bucky nods frantically. “I’ll stop them, Steve – we’ll do it – get the ring, we’ll get it, just hold on, alright? We’ll find-”

Steve’s head shakes under his hand. His eyelids droop, and Bucky’ words die in his throat, because he managed to get Steve killed after all. Even as himself – without programming, he’s managed to kill Steve. He’s managed to destroy what makes him happy. He’d give anything to be the one bleeding out. 

Weakly, Steve brings up a hand: he gently tucks a lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear, and smiles; a death-mask of an expression, too pale and limp to be of any substance, or any meaning at all, but Bucky knows that he’ll never be rid of the memory of it, even if he lives a thousand years. 

Steve signs one final time – _I love you_ , and the sign they made up for Bucky’s name.  
“I know, Steve – I know, I know-” Bucky sobs. Steve’s eyes slip shut. “Wait – Steve-”

But Steve’s chest stops moving and he never heard Bucky say I love you back. It’s too late. He’s gone. 

A shadow looms over Bucky, as Steve’s blood leaks out less rhythmically, his heart stopping, and his muscles going completely limp; his head lolls back onto Bucky's lap. Bucky’s muscles burn from bearing the weight of him, but he never wants to let go. He never wants to imagine that this is real. 

“See,” He hears a voice from above say, “I’m a better shot than you after all,” 

Face prickling with the feeling of blood spray drying on his skin, Bucky tears his eyes from Steve’s slack face after a long moment – slowly he looks from steel-capped black boots, to knee pads, to a Kevlar vest adorned with a white cross; a face hideously scarred, and twisted into a proud, amused, _mocking_ expression, as he surveys Captain America, dead in Bucky’s arms, in a pool of his own blood. 

“They should have just sent me after him in the first place. But I guess you got him killed after all,” 

Bucky bristles, muscles tensing harshly in his right arm, curling Steve’s body closer into him; his left arm clenches too, the phantom pain making him want to scream, with the skin-crawling sensation – the weight of Rumlow’s gaze is enough to do that on its own, without taking that into account, too. 

“How does it feel, huh? . . . Because it looks pretty pathetic. Poor little puppet, crying over another man’s body,” Rumlow says, cocking his gun, and bringing it down to point directly at the centre of Bucky’s forehead. Bucky doesn’t flinch, his blood-soaked face completely blank, as he stares up into Rumlow’s eyes, past the barrel of the gun, and feels no fear. 

What’s there to fear, when the worst has already happened? – What’s there left to hold back for? 

“Come on. Time to go. The chair arrived yesterday, and we’ve got some programming to do in that rat’s-nest head of yours. Just as well I was on my way here to get you, huh? Or else he’d still be alive, and you guys would have escaped,” He points out, his grin widening impossibly. Bucky thinks he’s going to tear his own facial scarring, and he won’t even care. The amount of joy he’s getting from this is perverse. Bucky doesn’t move. 

“I gotta say,” Rumlow says, pacing around Steve’s body, rounding Bucky until his pistol is aimed directly at his temple. “Even if you were responsible for Rogers’ death, it feels pretty fucking good to be the guy who killed Captain America,” 

Bucky doesn’t even know he’s scoping out his prosthesis until within the course of a second he’s grabbed it from Steve’s open bag, and swung it with as much force as he can muster at Rumlow’s head. 

He doesn’t make any memories for the next five minutes. Everything is blurred, and grey. It’s like mental static, thinking about anything else instead of what he’s doing, as he’s doing it. He just zones out, thinking over and over about the stars; about polaris, and how everyone has their own constellation of people, of stars that never wink out; something to use to orientate themselves, something to love. What’s New York City, without Steve? What’s a war, without a Captain? 

What’s his recovery, if this is just going to force him backwards? 

The next he’s aware, his hand is soaked up to the elbow in blood; he’s still holding his prosthesis, and panting. He’s on the next level, apparently – the top floor, in a long, anonymous corridor, with a large door at the end. There’s a sign on the door that he can’t quite read. But he knows whose office it is, even though he doesn’t know, really, how he got there. 

He glances back at the corridor behind him: it’s littered with bodies. He doesn’t know if they’re alive or not. He doesn’t know if the blood all over him, in his footsteps, is theirs, or if it – _if it belongs to-_

“You there, Cap? – Steve, come in. Steve?” 

Bucky starts, flinching and looking all around for an adversary, before he remembers Steve’s comms device: he never gave it back. _Sam’s voice isn’t just in his head, this time._

But he can’t answer. He doesn’t know if he can say it.  
“Steve, we’re waiting for you – we’ve got our extraction ready,” Sam says, tone urgent. “What’s your ETA to security control?” 

Bucky gulps, looking all around him for an answer; he spots a spray of blood on the wall beside him, connecting the harsh red dots with his eyes, following a chance pattern; getting lost in it. Finally, he answers:  
“. . . Steve’s not coming,” He bites back a sob.  
“What? – Who is this?” Sam asks. Clearly, his voice has been so altered by days of not speaking, and by the sheer weight of grief he’s feeling, that it’s unrecognisable even to one of his best friends.  
“Steve’s not coming. He’s never coming,” Bucky repeats. There’s a long pause on the other end.  
“Barnes? – What’s going on?” He asks warily. “Where’s Steve?”  
“I’ve got a lead on Zemo. I can take him,” Bucky says, his fear giving way to rage; he turns it into something destructive, even to himself, but _useful_.  
“Negative – hang back, we – we need to discuss – we need to wait for Steve, where is he?” Sam asks, though Bucky can tell from his tone that he knows. He knows, but he doesn’t want it to be true. _He would have never let this happen_ , Bucky thinks. _Sam’s always been a better person than me, though. A better man. I'm not even a man._

“I can finish it,” Bucky says. He steps up to one of the bodies on the floor, and drops his prosthetic arm, picking up a gun in its place; he can tell from the weight of it, the _smell_ of it, that it hasn’t been fired, and has plenty of ammunition. He cocks it.  
“Bucky,” Sam says, his voice serious. “Come with us. We can deal with this, but we have to go,”  
“Thank you, Sam. Thank you for being my friend,” Bucky says, and gulps back a heavy feeling of finality, settling in his throat. Finally, he adds: “I’m sorry,” 

He presses one finger to the comms device, turning it off: he can’t be talked out of this, and he doesn’t want Sam to try, and think he failed, when he didn’t have a chance in the first place. He can do one last bit of good, here. 

He strides along the corridor, pacing up to the senator’s office door with steady steps, not wanting to stumble or fall, despite the fact that he’s shaking with adrenaline, now. He’s vaguely aware that he’s bruised in several places, and his forehead has been cut by some sort of blow with a blunt object, but his vision is crystal clear, even with the steady drip of blood down his face: he feels a sense of clarity overcome him, as he lets Steve’s death, and his run at revenge, sit side-by-side in his gut. 

An eye for an eye. Last breath for last breath. He’s ready to kill again. 

He kicks the door open, entering with his gun held aloft in his slightly-shaking hand: he’s confronted with the sight of the senator, standing at his floor-to-ceiling window, hands in his pockets, staring out and into the sunset like he’s got nothing to worry about. He can surely hear the alarms, from here, but he isn’t perturbed at all. He’s still, and calm. It unnerves Bucky. 

“Winter Soldier,” He says. “Isn’t the sunset beautiful? – it may well be the last you see. We don’t tend to let you remember things like these, after all. Too . . . Evocative,” The senator says. 

Bucky shoots the pane of glass: the senator finally flinches, as the fortified glass shatters, but doesn’t break. A few small shards on the inside fall to the floor; a few on the outside fall too, onto the ground far below, and the senator watches them for a few seconds. But when he turns around to face Bucky, he’s smiling – his smile only widens, when he catches sight of the state he’s in. 

“My, my,” He breathes. “Some things never change, do they?” His eyes travel from Bucky’s blood-drenched jumpsuit, to his similarly drenched arm, to his face, covered in arterial spray and fresh blood from the cut on his forehead. His hair is wild, sticking to his face. The evident blood represents just a _fraction_ of the kills Hydra made him carry out, incarnate – nothing Zemo hasn’t imagined before, or seen outright. But the way Bucky’s arm shakes, with adrenaline . . .  
“. . . The shaking is new, though. Do you see how he makes you weak? – It’s just as well you got him killed. I got the call just a few moments ago,” He says, taking a step across the small shards that splintered off from the pane. The sound of them crunching makes sets Bucky even more on edge. 

Bucky takes a couple of steps forward, crowding the senator back, until his back is pressed against the glass: his mouth is a grim, twisted line, as he looks into dark, amused eyes, ready to swallow him whole.  
“You did this,” He says, pistol pointing squarely at the senator’s heart.  
“I did,” He says, smugly. “I knew he’d come. I _wanted_ him to come. You see, it’s not enough that you both be killed – I wanted to destroy your legacies, too. Him, the valiant Captain, shown to the public to be _compromised_ and _perverse_ , and shot dead in an ill-fated attempt to rescue you . . . And you, yourself,” He hums, clearly very much amused by the situation. “A traitor. Nothing more than a machine – a weapon. Someone that killed Captain America, then disappeared – dropped right out of the history books, leaving your family and friends ashamed,” He smiles. “Think of how disappointed – what was her name? Rikki Barnes? – imagine what she’ll think,”  
“You’re trying to ask me to show you mercy and not kill you right now,” Bucky realises – and it dawns on him that if he kills Zemo, he’ll have killed a US senator; he’ll still be captured, and re-appropriated; brainwashed again by Zemo’s Hydra compatriots. If he doesn’t, the same will happen, but – at least his legacy won’t be the murder of a US senator, by his own choice. 

They’ll probably still try and pin Steve’s death on him, though. Even after Steve publicly came out, and declared his love to him, to the whole world – Steve wasn’t ashamed to show that, and it might be what helped him get killed. He couldn't even talk about their sexualities, let alone their genders, without it ending this way. _What a sick fucking world they both woke up in_. 

His hand shakes harder where it holds the gun. The senator grins still wider, as he says:  
“Now you see. Don’t you? – You have no choice. Either way, I win. Either way, you still belong to Hydra. You didn’t think you’d really escaped us, did you? . . . It was all a ploy. Your mission never ended, Winter Soldier. Not until today. You finally managed to draw Steve Rogers in, to be killed. In fact . . . This was all part of your programming, wasn’t it?”  
Bucky blinks. His eyes refocus, settling on the barrel of his gun. There’s movement around him, but he’s not sure what – colours shift, but he can’t comprehend them all too well.  
“N-No,” He stutters.  
“Yes,” The senator says. “Deep cover. You were designed to draw him in – to bring him here, and to us, with the promise of love. But you can’t love, can you? . . . Your emotions were weaponised. You lured him here, and to his death, to finish your mission,” The senator insists. He takes a step forward.  
“. . . And you did so well,” He says softly. He brings up his left hand, placing it gently on top of Bucky’s right hand, softly pushing the gun down, and towards the floor. Bucky’s eyes, unfocussed again, don’t watch him as he does so – his limb grows pliant, as he searches the floor for a reason not to believe the senator.  
“I . . . I don’t remember-” Bucky mumbles.  
“We couldn’t let you remember that, of course,” The senator says, placing his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “We wouldn’t want you to accidentally blow your cover, would we?” 

Bucky finds himself shaking his head. It makes sense.  
“But it’s over now. And that’s what happened,” Zemo says. He removes his hand from Bucky’s shoulder – Bucky watches as he reaches for his ring with his opposite hand. 

He knows that’s bad. Why is it bad? . . . Didn’t Steve say something about a ring? 

He smiles, just for a second: everything seems to happen at a fraction of its normal speed; the gun slips from his grip, as his hand relaxes totally – it falls to the floor. Suddenly, the sound of it going off surprises both of them, loud and brash, causing them both to jump. 

Bucky blinks – he sees Zemo go for his ring – _the reality stone – no – it’s not true, he can’t make it true – it was real, it was all real, and he can’t make it fake. It wasn’t a cover. I love Steve Rogers._

Bucky grabs the senator’s hand, yanking the ring brutally from his finger before he can protest: Bucky grasps it in his hand, feeling the unexpected white-hot heat of it burn his palm, but unable to let go; unable to let Zemo access it, to change reality into his twisted version – there’s still a chance to stop him. 

The senator freezes, seeing the ring in Bucky’s hand: he looks up to Bucky’s face, and sees that he’s a lot more alert than before, eyes wide and wild with thoughts of revenge and justice.  
“No,” Bucky asserts. “You’re wrong. I love Steve. It’s not a cover. It’s real. And you – _none_ of you can take that from me,”  
“Sputnik!” Zemo snarls – Bucky goes light-headed, all of a sudden, and immediately realises that was one of the trigger-words that Wanda managed to reduce the effect of, for him. He doesn’t pass out right away, but he knows it might just be a matter of time. 

He shakes his head, focussing with bleary eyes on the senator’s face: he sees fear there, for the first time, now that he’s not got his weapon; now that he’s not got his source of power, to manipulate everyone around him with. He’s just a weak little man. And men can be killed. 

He rounds on the senator, backing him towards the window, again: he opens his mouth to protest –  
“Winter Soldier, listen to me-”

Bucky just smiles, an expression generated by rage, as he says:  
“My name is Bucky,” 

And with all the force he can muster, he kicks Zemo square in the chest, into the shattered glass – causing it to fragment with the force of his body colliding with it, sending him flying backwards, and into the evening air. Bucky doesn’t have to wait long to hear the disgusting sound of a body being unmade in the distance, far below. Zemo screams all the way down. 

He falls to his knees, weighed down by his fatigue, after having been triggered: the ring slips from his grip, as he crawls on his hands and knees though shards of broken glass to the edge. He looks down, just to make sure Zemo is gone – he can see a blurry, bloody mess, mangled and covered in part by an expensive suit, attended by a couple of guards who shout unintelligibly up at him. 

But he’s too tired to interpret their words: he reels himself in from the window, and sets himself down on his back, lying on broken glass but not caring in the slightest. The shards cut him all over, but he still wants to sleep: still wants to dream of a life he'd do anything for – a life where Steve is still around, to know what he wants, and to fight for him, when he can’t; a life where he’ll be brought to justice, and the whole world will see what happened to him as a war crime in itself – that he is the victim, not the perpetrator, as he himself has learned at length. 

But mostly, he wants a life for Steve: his head lolls to one side, and he pants, trying to stay awake by oxygenating his brain better. He knows he can fight this – just like he did with the cradle trigger – if he tries hard enough. But there’s no reason to try, anymore. Zemo wasn’t right about the deep cover, but he and Rumlow were right, he _did_ get Steve killed. He doesn’t deserve happiness, after that. There’s no home for him, anymore. There’s nothing that-

His blurry eyes manage to focus, just for a second. His brow furrows slightly, and he realises what he’s looking at – his weary mind slowly calculates what it means, as he hears voices shouting at the end of the corridor. He forgets how he got into this position; it almost doesn’t seem real. But he knows he has to do one thing. 

Groaning with the strain of it, he uses his hand to roll himself over onto his stomach, not caring when the shards graze him; tear at his jumpsuit, and at the skin of his chest and abdomen. Before he’s even made the conscious decision, he’s dragging himself along by one hand, blood trickling into his eyes, but for some reason – some strange reason, that he can’t hope to understand, with incomplete and hazy memories, he’s only focussed on grabbing the ring. His vision is laser-focussed on it all of a sudden, and he can’t hear the alarms, or boots on the ground – he only feels the loss, and the finality, and the perseverance they ensure burns within him. Those feelings mute his physical pain, though he knows there must be some, because there is blood. 

Zemo is dead, so he has to confront it. But he can’t help but reach for the ring. 

_It’s okay. I’m coming home._

His right hand, bloodied and bruised though it is, manages to contact the gold metal: his fingertips slip, bloody, over the yellow stone – and suddenly, he isn’t there anymore - or, he’s not _just_ there. He couldn’t have predicted what it would be like to touch the stone; he can’t find any semblance of control, as it lures him in, and shows him everything he can stand to see. 

He’s present in the room, but he’s also in an infinite number of different worlds: an overwhelming variety of minutely changed circumstances lying along drastically different futures and pasts, offering too much choice, too many possibilities, for one man to ever even consider. The different realities are spread out for him, laid out neatly despite their overwhelming abundance, like when Steve used to organise his portfolio on their apartment floor, and Bucky had to be careful where he stepped. He wouldn’t want to damage them. He just wants Steve to be alive. He just wants Steve to be happy. 

He sees their old apartment – one vision shows them kissing on the bed, the atmosphere light and tinged with bright yellow, as they smile, and whisper stupid, sweet nothings to one another between the threadbare sheets. It’s not his reality. It’s not his past. Not his Steve. 

His fingers clench with the heartbreak, drawing the ring into his hand, and he can feel it – he can feel what it would be like to wear it. To be married – to marry Steve, if Steve would have him, if Steve were still alive, if he could carry on, _if – if – if –_

The flowers are yellow at the wedding. Bucky ties his hair back, but he doesn’t shave, because Steve likes him like this, now; he always did, if he’s honest. Steve wears his military uniform, and Sam gets his shield painted silver, to go with Bucky’s pocket square, and his left hand. Natasha makes a speech – she’s Steve’s _best woman_ , and Sam is Bucky’s _best man_ – it has everyone in tears laughing. Sam’s speech has everyone in tears crying. Bucky cries a little, but Steve cries a lot. He’s just so happy. The tears mix with the blood on Bucky’s face, as he watches it all play out, in the blink of an eye, laughing a little despite himself, almost hysterical with the maddening notion of what he can’t have. 

Steve's eyes are so bright, so blue, and the flowers seem to grin as they stare out from the centrepiece. They’ll always be in bloom, because _I’ll always want you, Buck – I’ll always want you, Buck – I’ll always want you, Buck–_

He wears the ring forever. He wears it when he holds Steve’s hand in the hospital, the metal pressing hard into his flesh as he tightens his grip almost to breaking point. He wears it when he holds their daughter for the first time. He wears it when he drives them home from the hospital, his two passengers out like a light the whole ride home. Sam and Natasha create a diversion because they’re too tired to deal with the media, right now. 

They name her after Steve’s Mom, and after Peggy, in that order. Steve cries like a baby, and Bucky doesn’t sleep for days, he just can’t stop _staring_ – sure, she’s their baby, but she’s just so _small_. It doesn’t matter, though: he remembers how to look after someone like her; it’s in his bones, in his blood, in muscle memory and everything they couldn’t snatch away from him. Even when she changes dramatically, at the same age Steve got the serum, he still cares for her the same way, just like he did with her dad. He’ll never let go, and he’ll always love her. He cries the first time she wears the Captain America uniform – she always said she wanted to be like her Daddy, but she didn’t mean Steve, that time. Her eyes are dark, and her hair is yellow, but there are darker shades. 

There are always darker shades. 

The ring heats up further against his palm, and though he can see galaxies, and stars, and entire nebulae, cosmic and unyielding and frightening in their beauty – sublime – he knows it’s not real. The only reality that is real is this one – the others are all beautiful, they’re all _right_ , but he can’t have them. He can’t have them anymore. He’d love them and they must not be for him. 

Not the wedding, not the child. He stopped wanting them, til he got back with Steve – but even now, he doesn’t want them – not as much as he wants one all-important thing; the thing he’s single-mindedly begging for, with all he is. He doesn’t care what happens to him, anymore. He’d just settle for Steve being alive. 

_I want Steve to be alive. Please, give him another chance. I just want him back. I love him._

“Please,” He whispers, not caring that he’s speaking aloud; he can’t even hear himself, over the sirens, and the shouting, and the numbness. “Please, let him be happy,”

His hand slackens, his head in blinding pain – and finally, he passes out, everything fading to yellow. The visions die, one by one, until there’s only one left. He doesn’t know if it’s real life, or some twisted form, where everything might be fine, and he might see Steve again when he knows peace. 

He lets himself slip away. 

-  
Everything is yellow behind his eyelids, but it fades. Everything grows dark again, and he passes back into unconsciousness. 

This happens a few times; he rouses, hearing small sleepy syllables fall unbidden from his mouth a couple of times. But he doesn’t wake. He feels as if he’s buried deep, or maybe subaqueous, unable to emerge; unwilling. Everything’s wrong and waking won’t make it alright. 

So even when he wakes properly, he doesn’t open his eyes. There’s no point. 

Slowly it comes back to him: the source of his malaise, the shade on his existence. The loss, like a physical weight, pressing him back into the sheet below him. He doesn’t know where he is, but it doesn’t matter, for now. It doesn’t matter at all. 

“I know you can hear me,” 

He keeps his eyes shut, for a few seconds, trying to identify the voice – but he’s too turned around. 

“James? – Open your eyes for me,” 

He frowns, his tongue darting out to wet his lips: his mouth is very dry, and his body feels strangely numb in a way that isn’t all too pleasant, so he knows he’s had some analgesics. 

“It’s been a week. Open your eyes,” 

Slowly, he complies with the request: his eyelashes part a little, and he looks through them, blinking with unusual frequency to clear the sleep from his eyes. He almost doesn’t care about his surroundings. It would be mind-numbingly horrible to find himself in Hydra’s possession, again – but they didn’t give him pain relief, all too often. Or let him sleep with sheets beneath him, undisturbed. He must be somewhere else. 

He can see a grey wall: his head is tilted to his left, facing a wall. Above his head, windows let grey light into the room; all around him medical equipment flashes with minute green lights, monitoring him. He can feel sensors on his chest, now that he’s more aware; a central line, an IV. Things to keep a sleeping man alive, over time. Even if he is a super-soldier. 

“Huh. Can’t believe that worked this time,” The voice tells him. He frowns, and looks down the bed – he sees Natasha, sitting forward, leaning towards him to watch his facial expression carefully. “Most times you just stayed asleep,”  
“N'tasha?” He asks blearily, his dry mouth not helping him enunciate at all. She holds an open bottle of water out to him.  
“Sit up,” She says – automatically he tries to move his right arm to take the bottle, but finds it secured in place. He shakes at the soft restraint for a second, but he can’t summon his strength to remove it, right now. He has no real motivation. 

He lets her help him drink, sitting up slightly, for a second, before relaxing back down again. 

“You’re alright,” He observes. Last time he saw Natasha, she went upstairs to have a nap, at Rikki’s house – right before Rumlow and his STRIKE team invaded the place, attacking all of them. She nods, with a sad smile.  
“I am. Jen didn’t press charges on the identity theft,” She says. He doesn’t understand what she means – he must have missed a lot, while in custody. But then again, he doesn’t understand a lot of things about this situation. And he doesn’t much care. 

He sniffs; blinks a few times at the grey wall past Natasha in silence. 

“. . . You were out for a week,” She repeats. He nods, without looking directly at her. “Sorry about the restraints. We’ve got some new blood looking at your case - independent defence lawyers, not affiliated with SHIELD at all. They’re having a field day, with the conditions you were kept in – the human rights violations, the fact Zemo was abusive – was _Hydra_ ,”  
“Everyone knows?” He asks, his eyes lingering on her face. She nods, a determined look in her eyes.  
“Everyone knows,” She confirms. “The feds don’t stand a chance at detaining you here for long, with Nelson and Murdock eating their goons alive – they’ve argued you down to house arrest at the Avengers facility, at this point, I think. At least, until your public trial,” She explains. 

His eyes slide back to the wall. He mutters, “Good,” But his heart isn’t in it. She frowns.  
“. . . That must be a lot to take in. Zemo’s being brought to justice – I mean, it's posthumous, after what you did to him in self-defence, but everyone will know just how twisted he was, eventually. Rumlow – was in pretty bad shape, when they found him. I don’t know what you did, but . . . Well, he’s on the other side of the infirmary block, now. He’ll stand for what he did to you, and Steve - and for being Hydra,” She reassures him. He nods once. He can’t take any pleasure in it. 

“. . . I’ll be allowed home,” He repeats. She nods slowly in confirmation, thinking that his brain is probably fried, after so long asleep.  
“Yeah. I think they were waiting for you to wake up, before they let you go. Keeping you for observation,” She says. “. . . They couldn’t find a reason for the coma, medically. Your body was reacting like it’d been through the ringer, but they couldn’t find a source,” She mentions. “. . . Do you remember what happened?” She asks tentatively, fixing him with an analytical gaze. 

He turns his head away from her: he stares down at his restrained wrist, and feels his face burn with shame, as he remembers it in stark, vivid detail. He licks his lips, and opens his mouth to say it – the words won’t come. He goes to sign, but he doesn’t have two hands – he doesn’t even have one to try and use, right now. He’s forced to confront it, out loud. 

“Steve turned up at my cell. Opened the door. Wanted to get me out, but I said – I wanted to go for Zemo. I wouldn’t listen to him, and-” He gulps, feeling his mouth become drier, “-we talked about it, but he just wanted to bring me home, and then – then it was so quick, Rumlow came in – high calibre rounds to Steve’s chest, to his n-neck – he just – he – I didn’t get to, to say-”

Bucky bites back his words, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth because he won't let himself cry, because this is on him. He knows Natasha can still see his anguish, even with his face turned away – the shame is muted, because what’s there left to be afraid for, now? What’s he got left? 

“James,” She says softly, and though he can’t see her face, he imagines that her eyebrows are pinched together – she just has that tone of voice. She sounds concerned, and confused. “James, what didn’t you get to say?”  
“I didn’t get to tell him that I – I l-” Bucky sniffs, and pauses for a moment, before picking up again: “Now it’s too late, he’s gone, it’s my fault,” He murmurs.  
“James, look at me,” She says. He shakes his head. She reaches over, and gently turns his face towards her. He lets her. In the midst of all his emotion, he registers that someone’s shaved him, while he was out – he’s still got stubble, but it’s nowhere near as long. That’s how Steve likes it. He remembers the visions of a wedding, and he closes his eyes, thinking about the yellow flowers. 

“James? - Bucky?” She tries.

She sounds concerned, her voice growing a little more urgent, as his head fills with visions of all the things he can’t have; that he can never have, because he’s him, and this is his life, this is what it’s like. Never a moment of happiness that will go unpunished. 

His eyes are closed, but eventually he forces himself to look at her: his red-rimmed eyes search her worried face, looking deep into her eyes, as she frowns down at him.  
“He’s not gone,” She says.  
“He is,” Bucky tells her. “I held him, I felt – felt the blood-” He looks down at his fingers, for a second, the phantom feeling of Steve’s blood pouring between them accosting him, making him feel ill. His fingers shake, splaying apart, and he can _feel_ the rush of warmth between them, like it’s happening all over again. His eyes stare down at them, wide and mostly unseeing, as he relives the memory. She reaches for his shoulder, gripping it tightly; she shakes once, her gaze growing harder, as she tries to bring him out of his waking nightmare. 

He looks into her eyes, as she shakes her head; he listens carefully to her seemingly impossible words – no hint of a mistake, or a misunderstanding, between them, this time – as she tells him again,  
“Steve’s alive,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, my personal headcanon for this fic (and in general) is that Steve is a trans man. You can choose to ignore this if you want, but regardless, that's how I've been writing this. Thanks!!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your support these last couple of weeks, especially, has been incredible - I literally can't believe the amount of people keeping up with this, and yelling about it on twitter to me (come and yell at me if you like, i'm @C0MMANDERROGERS) 
> 
> Anyway. This is the last chapter bar the epilogue, which I will post on Monday. Cheers!!

A week of processing stands between Bucky and Steve. It's a week, for Bucky, of worrying about what state Steve will be in; worrying during the night, when the lights are out and he’s supposed to be recuperating some more, despite the fact he feels fine now.

He can't shake the feeling that he’s been lied to. Natasha wouldn't lie to him on purpose – _unless she thought it was for his own good_ , a voice in his head tells him. And really, locked up in a hospital room in custody, waiting to be delivered to the Avengers facility for high-security house arrest until his trial, what has he got to look forward to? Perhaps she’s just providing a sense of hope? . . . _False hope?_

But when she’s allowed visitation – the one hour a day he’s allowed, and she has to share it with his lawyers – he can see in her face that she’s not lying to him. She knows not to lie to him, about this, given how awful he felt waking up to a world he didn’t think had Steve in it, anymore. It must have been how Steve felt when he woke up in the 21st century, originally, he thinks – the thought unsettles him. 

His lawyers managed to negotiate his house arrest with relative ease, while he was out: the date was already set before he emerged from his coma, the cause of which still hasn’t been determined by the doctors. He has his own theories, though: he hasn’t shared them with a single person, so far. He might tell the others about what happened that night, when he feels happy to do so: how he thinks he changed reality, and brought Steve back to life. As Natasha has explained to him, while Bucky went to speak with Zemo, Steve agreed to split from him and help the others get out, before going back to help him – but in the process he was arrested, and while Bucky apparently killed Zemo in self-defence. No one brings up the death of the Senator, much. Bucky wonders if he altered that by accident, too. 

The way he altered reality appears to have taken a physical toll on him, at least for a week after: he feels fine now, but he made such a huge alteration to the timeline of this reality, that he’s bound to feel _something_. The way he sees it, the senator was only altering one small thing at a time: he had a lot of practise, and he never made it so anyone was resurrected from the dead, or anything like that. He managed to get Steve killed, sure . . . Or maybe Bucky did. And he’s sorry for that. But he’s not sorry at all for the damage to himself that he incurred for a little while, by bringing Steve back. 

The terms of the house arrest have been explained to him many times, but they keep changing things. Originally he wasn’t going to be allowed a prosthesis at all on his left arm – Matt Murdock, the blind one of Bucky's two lawyers, was particularly enraged by this. Even when his partner points out that Bucky’s old prosthesis is being used as evidence, he won’t accept it – his client requires a special prosthesis due to the nature of his disability, and subsequent torture and non-consensual body modification, and there’s no room for any leeway, in that. 

Clearly when he went up in front of a judge, he got what he wanted. 

So now Bucky’s on a SHIELD jet flying over upstate New York, ready to be delivered into the arms of the Avengers staying at the facility, old metal arm finally back in place, with his neural implant humming low and comforting at a frequency he has to strain to hear at the back of his mind. His arms are restrained with the use of reinforced steel restraints – the kind that Hydra used to use, which disable his entire forearms, folding them one over the other in his lap. He remains in his blue prison hospital scrubs, for now: yesterday he got Natasha to cut his hair for him, under supervision of 10 prison guards armed with guns. She cut it back to shoulder length, and trimmed his beard down for him again. She kept making jokes, and he had to try not to smile. It’s a strange reversal of his usual attitude. 

He feels the craft coming in to land, slowing up and making its descent: all around him SHIELD guards stand, each holding onto a handle with one hand, while cradling their weapons with their other hand, in a way they think is subtle. They each eye him with mistrust – he doesn’t remember taking out the guards the 5 minutes immediately after Steve’s death, but he knows it was vicious. Perhaps that’s what this is about. He’s not sure if they’re dead, now – or if those 5 minutes ever happened. Maybe if Steve never died, he could’ve had a clear head about it; could’ve knocked them all out, on his way to Zemo's office, instead of killing them. 

Zemo is still dead – _killed in self-defence, that's the story now_ – and that’s all he really cares about. That, and the view he receives when the jet lands, and he stands when asked to, to see the view from the opening door.  
Bucky’s eyes seem to be only able to search out Steve, across the grass, hunting him down like it’s their one true purpose: he completely ignores the words being spoken around him; he can’t hear anything, except the beating of his own heart thundering in his ears. He didn’t realise until this moment that he _really_ didn’t believe it – he wasn’t _quite_ sure he wasn’t being lied to. He didn’t quite believe Steve was alive. 

His hands, where they’re bound together, are shaking, again – they never used to shake like this before. His fists clench and unclench, and he can’t spare a thought for what he looks like, right now: mouth hanging slightly open, gaze unfocussed. He feels helpless, overwhelmed by what he’s seeing – sure, he’s still got the size and stature of a killing machine; still has the appearance of someone who could kill in a second, even bound as he is. But all he feels capable of right now is staring at Steve. 

He’s never looked more beautiful. He stands with his hands on his hips, eyes searching the crowds of personnel emerging from the jet and onto the grass in front of the base. His clothes are crumpled, like he hasn’t changed them; like he hasn’t slept. His eyes are tired, but still bright, and hopeful, despite his obvious concern. Tension is evident in every line of his body – he wants to start forward, wants to spring into action, but he can’t, because of the restrictions of his own house arrest. He’s come as far as he can. The foot tag will register it as contravening the terms of his house arrest, if he comes any closer. 

Bucky’s vaguely aware of Maria Hill approaching the convoy of armoured personnel that have arrived with him from the prison infirmary, walking up to the commanding officer with a satisfied look in Bucky’s direction. This is a victory for her, too. 

But nothing’s more of a victory than the look in Steve’s tired, worried eyes when he finally makes eye contact with Bucky: he starts forward, before Sam catches his shoulder, leaning in to say something to him, to remind him about the house arrest. He looks like a dog pulling at a lead, eyes boring into Bucky’s face, searching it for signs of injury; surveying his whole body for any trace of ill-treatment, or long-lasting effects of his injuries, or his mysterious period of unconsciousness. It might have only been two weeks, but for Steve, not being able to verify that Bucky was at least alive and alright felt like months. 

If it’s hard on him, it’s harder on Bucky: the last image he has of Steve is of him gazing up from his lap, blood oozing out quickly from his neck; his eyes slipping shut, his heart stopping, and his skin growing pale. Bucky can feel blood on his hands – _both_ of them, despite the fact only his right was covered in Steve’s blood – _drenched_ , in fact. The restraints are huge, but Bucky gets the feeling of blood drying, even underneath them. He shivers, picking up the pace a little; trying not to step on the men in front of him, to get to Steve quicker. 

They arrive a couple of feet in front of Steve – he can’t be more than ten feet away – Bucky picks his jaw up from the floor, as he sees Steve fold his arms, hugging himself and looking a _lot_ worse for wear up close. His mouth is pressed tightly shut, his eyes red, as he watches one of the personnel crouch down beside Bucky. 

Bucky’s gaze is drawn from Steve as he feels someone touch his ankle – he looks sharply down, his vision laser-focussed on the man beside him touching his leg. It takes complete presence of mind not to kick him in the face; to remind himself that he’s simply turning on Bucky’s ankle tag. 

“Inmate,” One of the officers says, drawing Bucky’s attention. He gestures to Bucky’s forearms; Bucky presents them to him, waiting impatiently for the various officers to stop touching him, and feeling his skin crawl with an intensity that makes it extremely hard to stand still. It’s not a patch on the memory of Rumlow’s amused gaze, or his fingers on Bucky’s face, and knees, and thighs – but it’s still unpleasant. 

He counts up in sevens as quickly as he can in his head to distract himself from the feeling, eyes staring avidly down at his arms, as two personnel struggle to take the weight of the bulky restraints. They’re seriously heavy-duty. He knows they’ve been used on Steve, before, too. They’re very familiar to him from his time with Hydra. He thinks they were probably invented for him. 

Finally, the officer dealing with his ankle tag stands, and nods at the commander, confirming that it’s in place. The restraints are removed, and Bucky uses the coolness of his metal hand to soothe the rubbing on his right forearm. Those things _hurt_. 

He looks between the officers – at Maria Hill, who simply nods to him. He knows what that means. 

He rushes forwards, barrelling into Steve hard, causing him to take one or two steps back: he catches Steve’s noise of surprise with his mouth, kissing him hard, like he wants Steve to feel it, and feel it for a while. Steve’s hands are only hesitant for a second, aware of their surroundings, but Bucky simply doesn’t care. Not anymore. He’s desperate. 

His eyes screw shut, and he concentrates on the feel of it – the _life_ in Steve, warm and pressing back into him, as he decides they’ve had so much taken from them, already, and they can’t take this. They can’t make this feel wrong, no matter how hard they try. 

Steve’s hands come up, one clinging to Bucky’s right shoulder, the other bunching in his hair, and pulling just a little. _That’s_ the lack of finesse Bucky likes to see – loves to feel. It’s not that Steve doesn’t care, or that he’s incapable of being gentle, it’s just that he _knows_ that this is what Bucky loves. He knows he can’t always be treated with kid gloves. He can’t stand to be handled like he’s not really there. If he can feel it, really _feel_ it, then it’s real. 

Bucky feels wetness on Steve’s cheeks – but it’s not Steve that’s crying, it’s him. When he realises that, he pulls away, trying his hardest to tuck his head under Steve’s chin, bending his spine to fit. His whole body shakes, racked with sobs he hasn’t been able to let out, yet. His hands still bunch in Steve’s shirt. 

One of Steve’s hands wraps around him, palm pressed to Bucky’s shoulder blade, making small circles, while the other cups the back of his head. He just breathes, feeling the press of Bucky’s body into his own; feeling the shaking subside, and his breathing hitch less and less. 

Steve hears the commanding officer explaining some rules to Maria; hears Sam thank him curtly, clearly telling him in as many words that he and his employees can leave, right now. He hears Maria greet Natasha, who’s arrived just in time to see Bucky finally let those tears he’s been holding in for two weeks free. 

After several minutes, Bucky raises his head, tucking it into the crook of Steve’s neck. He wraps his arms around Steve, chin resting on his shoulder; he whispers to him in a reverent, hoarse voice,  
“I love you too, Steve,” 

Steve pushes him away a little, gripping his forearms, and holding him a little way from his body, so he can look at his face. Bucky looks up from beneath his brow; his eyebrows, knitted together, as he licks his lips.  
“What?” Steve asks, a little confused. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, just for a second, before steeling himself to repeat,  
“I love you. Never got to say that,” 

Steve doesn’t know the context – doesn’t know that Bucky missed his chance, before. Or that, at least, he thought he did. He doesn’t know the half of it. But it still makes him misty eyed, heart breaking with the honesty and the rawness of the statement. 

Steve pulls him closer, again; holding him tight. He feels Bucky gasp a little, or maybe it’s just his breath hitching again. Tears leak down Steve’s face, landing silently on the thicket of Bucky’s unruly hair, as he holds him like he never wants to let go. 

“. . . Missed you so much, Buck. And-” He huffs out a small sigh, pressing a kiss into Bucky’s hair, as he tells him, “. . . I love you too,” 

-

They’re ushered into the conference room as soon as they set foot in the building: Maria tells them they’re in for one hell of a debriefing. Steve protests, at first, thinking that Bucky would rather rest – but Bucky insists on getting it out of the way. He’s still extremely vexed about what happened at the prison, that night. No one could give him a straight answer; Nat didn’t know, and none of the staff would explain, even if he’d asked them. Which he didn't. He doesn’t trust any of them, given that they were compliant in his unlawful detainment. 

He takes a seat on the same side of the conference room table as he usually does; Steve sits down beside him, like he usually does, too. This time, Steve takes his hand, automatically – just like he automatically gives it up to him. 

“Gentlemen,” Maria says. Bucky shifts uncomfortably. It’s not quite right; somehow, after all that’s happened to him, he feels that more acutely. Trauma has a habit of putting things in perspective. He lets it slide for now, though, simply tightening his grip on Steve’s hand without really blinking. 

“What happened at the prison is a scandal. Everyone’s talking about it,” She shares. Steve frowns – it looks like he’s been out of the loop, too.  
“Is it good news, or bad?” Steve asks apprehensively. Maria smiles.  
“No one can believe it. They can’t believe you were part of a jailbreak, for one, Cap,” She says. Bucky smirks. They don’t know Steve too well, then. “There’s a lot of chatter about when your trial will be. A lot of people want you to step down, in the meantime. That sound fair to you?” She asks. 

Steve sighs, rubbing his brow with one hand – it does sound fair, actually. Unlike Bucky, he committed a crime, here – he’s been interviewed, and charged, and it was all his doing. There’s evidence of him being there; the others the authorities can’t seem to dredge up enough evidence on, right now. He’s the one that’s going to go down for this. He’s known that for the most part of these last two weeks – and he’s already come to the conclusion that he needs to step down, at least in a public capacity. 

“It’s fair. I’m willing to step down,” He agrees.  
“Steve?” Bucky asks him uncertainly – Steve smiles gently at him.  
“It’s fine. Sam will make a great Cap,” Steve tells Bucky, squeezing his hand. Bucky smiles back, thinking that that’s true – Sam has always done a great job, when he’s stepped into the role before. The team needs Captain America; it needs the Falcon, too, but so what if they’re one person? 

“What about Bucky’s trial?” Steve asks, turning back to Maria. She hands Bucky a file to look through – it’s signed by Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson. He’s aware of their work, having had many visits from them, during his time in hospital.  
“The government are eager to move forward your trial to as soon as possible. My contact at the justice department tells me they want to have the first hearing within the next couple of weeks. This whole thing has been very embarrassing for them – especially since _someone_ leaked the details of your incarceration to the media, and the details about Zemo’s involvement with Hydra,” She points out. 

Bucky shifts, frowning: he looks to Steve, whose expression is somewhat unreadable. He looks thoughtful, though; he’s sharing a look with Maria that tells Bucky they know something he doesn’t.  
“. . . Who made the leak?” He asks. Steve tears his gaze from Maria.  
“We don’t know for certain. But . . . Whoever it was, wanted to share all Zemo’s plans. Whoever it was left no stone unturned. It looked like _revenge_ ,” She says, and she’s clearly suggesting something. 

Bucky looks between them, and wonders – _they don’t mean_ -  
“Tony?!” He surmises, incredibly surprised.  
“We don’t know for certain,” Steve repeats Maria’s words lightly.  
“But whoever it was gave away Tony’s details, too. How he was manipulated by Zemo – how he was taken in,”  
“Do the public know about the ring?” Bucky asks, feeling strangely worried for Tony, even though it makes no sense at all, after what he’s done.  
“No. They don’t,” Steve says. Bucky’s taken aback: that means Tony’s got no excuse; nothing to fall back on. He’s taking ownership, if it is him that made these leaks, as well. He’s trying to undo all the bad things he’s done. And that includes leaking confidential government information - which is an offence. He'll have a trial of his own, soon enough. 

“. . . All this came at around the same time Tony told us he was going to be spending more time with Pepper. Taking some time off,” Steve adds quietly. Bucky takes all he needs to know, from that. Clearly, Pepper has the same effect on Tony’s decision making, as Steve has on Bucky’s mood. A calming, rationalising presence. One that helps maintain control; remain _them_ , even in the face of others’ attempts at manipulation. 

“In the upcoming weeks, you’ve got to stay within the confines of the compound. You’re both supposed to report to me every day, to check your ankle tags. But other than that, you can do whatever,” Maria points out. “Oh – but no weapons,” She adds. 

Bucky sits up a little straighter, looking worried – “None?!” He asks. It’s the loudest she’s ever heard him talk. He usually keeps to himself, and doesn’t raise his voice.  
“You won’t lose your skills, Buck,” Steve points out. Bucky shakes his head.  
“No, that’s – that’s not what I mean. I don’t feel like – I can’t live here if I can’t-” He sighs, frustrated. He pinches at his brow with the hand Steve isn’t holding, clearly exasperated, because he can’t say it in words. Steve meets his gaze. 

Bucky removes his hand from Steve’s grip, and signs a few words. Steve’s expression changes drastically, and he sits up a little straighter.  
“Maria,” He says, turning to her. “Can you turn a blind eye to one weapon in our apartment? – It’s just – Rumlow got in here before, and I know he’s in prison now, but . . . I think we’d all sleep a little better at night, with Bucky protecting us,” He reasons. She nods, conceding the point: she remembers that day well. She'd rather it not be repeated. 

She looks between the pair of super soldiers, and knows that it could be a bumpy few months, during the trial, with Bucky Barnes itching for a weapon, the entire time. This might be the lesser of two evils. 

“. . . Alright. I’m not going to search your apartment. Just – keep away from the firing range, for now,” She says.  
“Thank you,” Bucky tells her, looking her right in the eye. She feels a little surprised, at that: he hasn’t really made eye contact with her much, so far, in all the months she’s known him. It hasn't offended her that he feels closer with the other Avengers, than with her – after all, they’ve all spent much more time with him, than she has, overall – but she feels the full gravity of the gratitude he’s showing her, now, as he nods his thanks to her. Really, he’s got a lot to be thankful for, when it comes to Maria: from agreeing to the terms of his house arrest, to organising the press for him and Steve, in the wake of all recent leaks. Not to mention her support on missions, and during their initial escape from the Avengers facility, during the police raid. 

It’s all about respect, with him. She’s certainly earned his – and with the work he’s done with the team, and the lengths he went to to expose senator Zemo as Hydra, without thinking of his own safety or freedom . . . Yes, the respect is mutual. They’ve both sacrificed a lot for the team, directly or indirectly, through this entire scandal. Bucky clearly thinks of her as his equal. 

Steve can tell as much, from his expression, anyway. He ducks his head and smiles. 

“It’s alright, Barnes. Now I don’t want you to speak to anyone in the press about what happened, but I’m going to give a statement about your house arrest, if that’s okay?” She asks. 

Steve and Bucky share a look, before both nodding.  
“I’ll need your input,” She points out, opening up her laptop.  
“Um, maybe – we could wait until tomorrow?” Steve says, eyeing Bucky, who’s shifting slightly in his seat. He’s still wearing his prison clothes, and he needs to take a shower, whenever he can. Bucky’s never been one for a huge amount of cleanliness, but Steve doesn’t doubt he’d love the chance to wash the chaos and the fear that his detainment caused him from his skin. 

Maria looks between them, and makes an understanding expression.  
“Alright. Tomorrow. 09:00 hours. Don’t be late,” She says, leaning her elbows on the table, and linking her fingers together. Steve can see that she’s joking, as he stands up. 

Bucky stands too, and leans wholly across the table, reaching for her: she takes his right hand a little warily, and shakes it firmly. Steve raises an eyebrow, but abides the behaviour without commenting.  
“Thank you,” Bucky says, one last time. She just nods. 

“Come on,” Steve says, leading Bucky out of the room, “Let’s get you home,” 

\- 

Bucky finds it strange to set foot in their apartment again: it’s clear the place was searched for evidence. Things have been tossed carelessly to one side; Bucky can see the draw his journal usually resides in has been opened, and it’s nowhere to be found. Perhaps it was seized as evidence. 

But some things are exactly the same as when they had to leave in a hurry: two coffee cups left with half an inch of cold coffee left at the bottom of them still sit on the coffee table, from before Bucky’s last session with Franklin, which turned out to be an ambush by Rumlow. 

_Steve’s been living here since he's been under house arrest_ , Bucky thinks, looking around. He sympathises, though: he barely wanted to shave, or cut his hair, he was too turned around – Natasha had to convince him. He can’t imagine what it would be like, to look after a whole apartment. Steve can’t have been in a very good state of mind, waiting for Bucky to be released to him. He’s probably been at the punching bag, more hours than not, this week. 

“Just as well I didn’t leave anything out of the fridge before we had to go,” Steve comments idly, wrinkling his nose at the thought of the smell. Bucky hums, stopping in the middle of the lounge, hands down by his sides, as he surveys the entire room. It’s messy; disorganised. He’s often been guilty of leaving things around the place and not tidying them up for days at a time, but that was always organised mess – and it was always _him_ that was doing it, not some stranger, looking through his possessions; his deepest thoughts, no doubt, in his journal. It’s not that there’s anything incriminating, in there: it’s just that it’s private. Not even Steve gets to read it, usually. He doesn’t ask to. He’s curious, no doubt, but he knows it’s just for Bucky. 

“I wonder if they got the revolver in the ceiling tile,” Bucky asks - Steve sees his gaze turn to the tile in question; sees his head tilt, as he catches a glimpse of a camera, in the corner of the room. He eyes it with suspicion.  
“. . . They’re off, Buck. For good. They’re being uninstalled,” Steve says. “Next Monday,” 

Bucky nods, dropping his gaze. He feels Steve's hand on his shoulder, a second later: he turns around, eyebrows raised, wondering what other problems with their home he has to tell Bucky about. 

“Buck-” Steve says, letting his arm drop to his side; Bucky watches it fall, before looking up at Steve, who’s seemingly troubled. “You know I – I love being Captain America,” 

Bucky smiles softly, remembering how much Steve wanted to be a soldier – how proud he was, after his first unsolicited mission to rescue the 107th infantry, to be declared an actual _Captain_ , after all that was said about him and his body; all the insults, and the underestimation. The title means he proved them all wrong. 

“After all’s said and done, and the trial’s long gone . . . Maybe a month or so after, you . . .” Steve says, but trails off. Bucky looks at him quizzically, concerned, now. He’s afraid of what Steve will say, now. It can’t be easy on him, to just step down, whatever the circumstances.  
“I can’t be Cap. I can’t be an Avenger. But you’ll be a great addition to the team. As an actual Avenger, on the roster, this time, along with Rhodey, and Wanda, and Nat, and Sam, at least,” He says, thinking that Tony and the Vision might be slightly harder to coax back onto the team, after all that’s happened, recently. There might be a little too much bad blood with Tony, and the Vision might consider the team too political to allow them to do their job of saving humanity. Steve thinks that he’ll have to ask Hope and Scott at a later date if they want to join up.  
“I’m not sure the public would go for that,” Bucky confesses, scratching the back of his head. "I'll still be the Winter Soldier to them,"  
“It’s not their decision. It’s yours,” Steve asserts, before adding, “. . . And mine,”  
“What do you mean?” Bucky asks, with a raised eyebrow.  
“. . . Blue’s a good colour on you. Do you remember that?” 

Bucky does remember: he remembers a blue jacket; remembers the rough fabric, soft on the inside from wear; the white wing on the left upper arm. He remembers seeing it at the museum, beside the other Howling Commandos’ costumes. 

But that’s not what Steve’s talking about. 

“. . . Wait,” Bucky says, shaking his head and closing his eyes, for a second. “Wait a second-”

Steve’s smiling, at this point – beaming, in fact, as he watches Bucky try to comprehend what he’s really saying. 

“Are-” Bucky swallows, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. He drags his eyes from where they’ve settled on Steve’s chest, up to his eyes. “. . . You want me to be Captain America?”  
“How about it?” Steve asks, grinning at Bucky’s face: he’s clearly overwhelmed by the suggestion. It’s no surprise that he’s thought himself a little _unworthy_ , since working with the Avengers. But this . . . This is the highest accolade he imagines could be bestowed upon him. Not because Captain America means war, and duty, and honour – but because it carries with it everything that Steve is, as a man: courage, strength, but most importantly, _compassion_. He thinks Bucky is capable of that. He wants Bucky to be that man. 

All Bucky can do is try, for him. 

. “Sam’s great, but he’s not always here – I’ve talked to him about it, and he agrees. And you know – you _know_ you look good in uniform,” 

Bucky nods dumbly, licking his lips; he feels his eyes dart between Steve’s eyes, feeling the expectation weigh on him, but not finding it confining, or in any way oppressive. It’s not a burden on his shoulders, but comforting, like a tight embrace. It envelops him, until he feels like he might be at one with it – might be worthy, if Steve believes in him. 

“What do you say?” Steve asks, looking genuinely concerned that Bucky might say no. But there’s no way Bucky could turn this down – even though he’s doubtful about his ability to perform, he thinks that with Steve’s backing, he can do _anything_. With Steve believing in him, he can believe in himself, and be worthy of the title; of the shield. 

“. . . Do I get to help pick the new costume?” Bucky asks, only half joking. Steve laughs anyway.  
“Oh, you want a new suit?” Steve asks, with a cheeky smile.  
“Feds confiscated mine,” Bucky says, with a shrug. “Load of black leather . . . Not very patriotic, right?” He asks, with a raised eyebrow, daring Steve to make a comeback, to that one.  
“Depends on who you ask,” Steve murmurs, bringing him closer. Bucky feels his hands trail softly down his sides; down to his hips, then slip behind him, grabbing a good handful of his ass with both hands.  
“Steve,” He whispers, his voice sultry.  
“Yes, Captain?” He asks. Bucky can’t help but shiver. He doesn’t know why it has such big effect on him – maybe because that makes it sound like he’s in control here, even though it’s just a title. 

Bucky leans into Steve a little more, lips brushing against his ear, as he whispers, “Think we’d better hit the showers,”  
“Yes, Captain,” Steve repeats. Bucky’s smile is unbelievably broad, as he drops his hands to Steve’s waistband, tugging his button and fly open, and pulling his trousers down to reveal his underwear. Steve steps out of his trousers, and Bucky’s hands re-familiarise themselves with the curve of his ass; the stretchmarks on his thighs, the dimples in his skin. Steve sets to work on Bucky’s blue scrub shirt, pulling it over his head when he can stand to remove his hands from Steve’s body, for a second. 

He immediately darts in, pressing a wet kiss to the side of Bucky's neck that makes him sigh. He travels to the left, getting to the scar tissue, feeling the roughness of it; feeling the way Bucky’s breath hitches, and hearing him softly moan at the gentle touches over his scars. No one does this, but Steve. No one is allowed to touch him where Hydra really hurt him. 

“You’re beautiful,” Steve mutters, pressing a soft kiss to the join between metal and flesh. Bucky half-laughs, half-chokes.  
“Look who’s talkin’,” Bucky groans, hands travelling up underneath Steve’s shirt, just playing with his abdominal muscles. Steve only really likes him to touch his chest every now and again – but this time, Steve leans back for a second, and removes his tight compression shirt. Bucky’s eyes are drawn to his chest – the material was tight enough to leave redness, and lasting rivets in his skin. After a nod of approval from Steve, he takes a moment to massage Steve’s chest, and help wipe away those sore spots. Steve abides it – leans into it, in fact – and Bucky knows that today is one of those days. Steve’s not ashamed – not of how he was born, not of what he became – and he doesn’t want to deny Bucky any part of himself. 

Not when he just got him back. 

Steve tugs on Bucky’s hair, as he leans in, planting gentle kisses to Steve’s reddened skin.  
“You’re gonna need a haircut, Captain,” Steve says fondly; he feels, more than hears, Bucky’s groan – the vibrations go straight from his mouth, through Steve’s chest, like they’re one. In a way, they are – they’re Captain America. 

“Not if I tie it back,” Bucky mentions, standing straight again, and raising an eyebrow in challenge.  
“Always liked you with your hair tied back,” Steve confesses. Bucky smiles.  
“I like _you_ any which way,” He says, tugging at the waistband of Steve’s underwear.  
“. . . Alright. I like you any which way too, jerk,” He echoes. “Any which way but cocky,”  
“Lying’s a sin, Steve,” Bucky tells him, leaning in to kiss along his jawline; his flesh hand gropes at Steve’s chest, the other messes his hair up. They’re just about to shower, anyway – well, _ostensibly_. 

“I think we’re past that now,” Steve reminds him. “Now shut up and take your trousers off. Let’s get you clean,” He adds. Bucky sniggers.  
“Good luck with that,” He says. Steve gulps, as he feels anticipation settle in the pit of his stomach, finally uprooting the dread and fear that’s been sitting there for weeks. 

Bucky’s one of the only people in the world that can make those things – those internal demons, those horrible thoughts, those dreadful ideas and awful imaginings – go completely quiet. He feels them silenced, entirely, when he sees Bucky smile. 

Bucky smiles more, now. So Steve smiles too. 

-

“Stevie?” 

Steve looks up from where his head leans on Bucky’s chest: both of them have been half-asleep for about half an hour now, thoroughly worn out after their _shower_ , which began something like 3 hours ago. Steve, at least, feels like he needs to take another. 

Steve’s big eyes are questioning, and concerned, at the tone of Bucky’s voice; Bucky’s right hand keeps stroking Steve’s hair, to calm him. It seems to work as well on Steve as it does on him. 

Bucky shifts slightly: his left hand is behind his head, where he’s lying back on the bed. Sunlight streams in through the window, early evening illumination lighting the room. It glints off Bucky’s arm, and off their matching ankle tags, where they emerge from the soft sheets. Soon the stars will be out. 

“Mm?” Steve hums. Bucky smirks – Steve's never been very good at speaking, when he's worn out. He goes a bit dopey. Nevertheless, Bucky has to get this off his chest – his right arm curls a little tighter around Steve, protecting him against a fate that never happened.  
“. . . I’ve gotta tell you something,” He says quietly. It doesn’t ease Steve’s look of concern at all. He sits up slightly, leaning on his elbow and looking down into Bucky’s troubled eyes. Whatever it is, it’s weighing on him a lot. 

“What is it, Buck?” He asks. Bucky can almost hear Steve’s heart thundering from here. He’s still all red: Steve’s always been a full-body blusher. 

“I-” Bucky begins, but bites his lip. “I – I think I – used the ring. The stone,” Bucky confesses. Steve’s mouth drops open.  
“What?” Steve asks, shocked. “Buck, what did you do?” 

Bucky swallows, and avoids the question: “I think that’s why I was out for a long time. It took a toll. Something big like that,”  
“Why did you do it?” Steve asks, still taken aback; he sounds breathless, like he’s panicking.  
“I’m sorry! It was just there, and I reached out for it, I took it and I kind of – I kind of wished for things to be right. For you,” He explains.

The look of shock and awe doesn’t leave Steve’s face, though: he wants to know exactly what Bucky did; what he chose.  
“What did you do?” He asks again, a little softer this time, clearly seeing that this is hard for Bucky to talk about. Whatever he did, it wasn’t easy. 

Steve looks down at him, and he sees stars behind his eyes: constant and shining, infinite and spirited in a way Bucky wouldn’t believe, unless he was looking right at him. He’s got one hand on Bucky’s chest, soothing the scar tissue with the life and warmth exuded by his warm skin. His expression is strangely luminous. Bucky never wants that light to dull, ever again. 

He can’t do it. He can’t tell Steve what they almost lost. He can’t let him know how badly he failed him – he has to maintain the fiction that he’ll always protect Steve, always save him – first time around, not using some miraculous stone. He wants to be there for Steve forever. Because Steve deserves it. And he loves Steve. 

“I can’t tell you. It won’t come true,” He says, making the effort to smile. Steve shoves at him a little.  
“This is serious, Buck! You could’ve done anything!” Steve insists. Bucky shakes his head.  
“I mean it, Stevie. I can’t tell you. I don’t want to undo it, I just . . . I want you to know that I made things right. I stopped Zemo, and I made things right. I can’t tell you anything else,” Bucky refuses. 

Steve examines his face carefully: there’s a thin sheen of drying sweat, and the odd hair stuck to his face; his hair is wild, and his expression is serious and sincere. After weeks worrying about Bucky’s wellbeing, Steve finds that he’s never been so radiant as when he’s safe, in his arms, like now. It distracts him from the matter at hand, just for a moment. He thinks Bucky probably notices, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s not joking, anymore; his anguish looks sincere. Steve can see that he wants to tell him – but he’s genuinely afraid he’ll undo whatever he did. 

“. . . You didn’t change yourself, did you?” Steve asks nervously, a hint of warning in his voice. “You know I love you just the way you are, I don’t want you to-”  
“No!” Bucky says, acting like he didn’t consider it, even for a second. “. . . No. Nothing like that. I needed to tell you, but - please, just – drop it, now. Please?” He asks. 

Steve hasn’t seen Bucky beg before – not like this. Not desperately. He brought it up, but he clearly doesn’t want to share whatever happened. Steve doesn’t want him to carry the burden of whatever it is on his own, but he has to respect his privacy. 

“Do the others know what you did?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head.  
“Nat knows I used the stone. I told her that much - I'll tell the others I used it. But not what I did,” He tells Steve. 

Steve sighs: he reaches up, brushing the hair from Bucky’s face – he flinches minutely, but Steve’s not offended, or worried. Not when Bucky’s eyes are slipping shut, now, and he’s breathing deeply, while Steve strokes his face. When Steve leans in to kiss him, he kisses back, concentrating on the feel of Steve’s lips against his lips, his cheek, his jaw; the heat of them, the warmth, the vitality, as Steve tugs on his hair. He lets his right hand slip down Steve’s body, simply laying a hand on Steve’s ribs, pulling him closer. 

“Whatever you did,” Steve whispers in his ear, between kisses, “. . . Thank you. I wish everyone could see what I see in you,” Steve adds, staring up at him. The way Bucky gazes back at him, genuine trust reflected in his eyes, makes him wonder how anyone could want him sent down for what Hydra made him do.  
“They might never see it. I don’t care. As long as my best guy’s got my back,” He says, with a smirk Steve’s always thought was _charming_.  
“. . . We’ll make them see. We can do it, Buck. You and me. Right?” 

Bucky surges upwards, bringing his hands up to cup Steve’s face, thumbs brushing gently along his jaw, as he looks directly into his eyes. It doesn’t matter that one hand is metal, and the other is flesh; it doesn’t matter that they’ve been fighting enemies and friends their whole life, with no sign of let up, or of either of them giving in, no matter what. It doesn’t even matter that two weeks ago, Bucky held Steve lifeless in his arms, and he’s the only one who’ll ever know about that, or remember it. It all pales in comparison to the look of acceptance and love on the face of a guy too dumb to run away from a fight – too daft to run away from Bucky Barnes, a nightmare made incarnate. Too full of heart to just quit, even when Bucky had given up on himself, in his dark times. 

No, none of it matters at all. All that matters is their family – the Avengers, and Rikki, and most of all, each other. 

“Til the end of the line, pal,”


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it!! The last chapter. I hope you enjoy it :^)

ONE YEAR LATER 

“Captain, we have a situation here!”

Bucky grunts, ducking behind the corner of the metal storage container he’s currently using as cover. He can hear bullets ricocheting off the container on the other side – he thinks he’s safe, until one shoots clean through the container, and makes a hole beside his right ear. He eyes it in shock. 

“No shit!” He says, running for better cover: he dives behind an armoured truck, built to withstand bomb blasts, and quickly re-evaluates the situation. The smell of the bullets in the air is familiar to him: it’s the same as when his shield is heated up; the same as when he burns the metal panels on his new arm. 

_Hot vibranium._

“They’re using vibranium bullets – vibranium-coated, at least. They only stole a finite amount,” Bucky grits out, checking his clip “They must think we’re worth it,”  
An enemy agent comes around the corner and he shoots him immediately, without a pause for thought. 

“How flattering,” Natasha comments, though Bucky has absolutely no idea where both she and Wanda have gotten to in the midst of the firefight.  
“They gotta run out sometime!” Sam says optimistically. Bucky casts his gaze upwards: he can see Sam and Rhodey in the sky, moving almost too fast for his eyes to keep track of. All around him is gunfire – including AIM agents trying to shoot two of his team from the sky.  
“Falcon, War Machine – I think it’s time to fall back – neither of you can withstand a hit from vibranium ammunition,” Bucky tells them. An AIM agent comes around the corner – breathing _fire, that’s just great, fire-_

He jumps up, kicking off the side of the van and jumping into the agent, shield-first, to collide with his head, and send him barrelling to the ground, out cold. He rolls as he hits the ground, and dives for cover again.  
“Nope,” He mutters to himself. 

“That’s a negative, Cap,” Sam says. “We’re doing fine up here. They’re quick, but we’re quicker,”  
“We’ve got the perimeter on lockdown – no one’s escaping today,” Rhodey says, sounding determined.  
“Just as well – T’Challa would have our heads if we fucked this up,” Natasha points out.  
“Just a warning – they’ve perfected extremis somehow – they’ve sent out extremis agents into the field now,” Bucky says, as he takes on two extremis agents, burning hot – dispatching one with a hit of his shield to his head, one with a chokehold from his left arm. 

“Time for drastic measures – wanna light em up, Thor?” Bucky asks, aware that he’s flying all around the premises, looking for worthy foes.  
“I will gladly oblige, Captain!” Thor says. “Take care where you step,” 

Bucky peeks around the corner of the vehicle: he looks up into the sky, and feels the wind pick up, centring around Thor, as he raises Mjolnir aloft, drawing static electricity from all around him. He summons the power, and within seconds, multiple lightning strikes target tens of AIM agents, frying them before they even realise that Thor’s up in the air. 

The smell of burning hair reaches Bucky, seemingly a wall of scent, as he sees an AIM agent twitching on the ground a few metres from him: he grimaces. The smell of it, the _feel_ of the lightning in the air, brings back unpleasant memories for him. He was so on edge around Thor’s thunder and lightning, at first, because of the ECT Hydra put him through. Now, he knows his discomfort is more than worth it, to have Thor on the team. They’ve become quite firm friends. 

Thor lands beside his hiding place, striding up to him blithely and slapping him on the back.  
“My friend. It never ceases to amuse me what the static electricity does to your hair,” He mentions, pointing at Bucky’s head. He reaches up with his metal hand to smooth his hair down: it’s tied up, like always, but it has gone a little haywire. That usually goes away within a few seconds. 

“Laugh it up if you wanna. You know you’re just jealous,” Bucky tells him, with a smirk, and a glint in his eye. Thor grins back at him. 

There’s shouting from the base, again: Bucky peaks around the corner, and sees hundreds more agents pouring out of the base. They clearly know they’re under attack – this seems like a last resort, or maybe even an escape attempt, by some. 

“Keep that perimeter tight, there’s loads more coming!” Bucky orders.  
“Sure thing, Cap,” Sam acknowledges.  
“Got it,” Rhodey agrees: Bucky glances up to the sky, and briefly catches Sam and Rhodey hi-fiving. He rolls his eyes. 

“Ant-man, Wasp, where are you at with security?”  
“It’s hard to say,” Scott tells him. “The ants are having trouble with the layout, and-”  
“We’re fine, Cap. Just a few more minutes,” Hope interrupts him.  
“Alright good,” Bucky says, as Thor takes off beside him: tens of enemy agents come around the corner – he takes three throwing knives from his belt and throws them into three of their necks, causing a pileup as the others trip over their bodies, and they’re unable to hit him effectively with their gunfire. 

He falls back, firing from his gun and covering himself with his shield, as he backs away from them. But when he reaches a wall, he realises he’s been backed into a blind alleyway: this base doesn’t have the most logical of designs, but this one has _got_ to be the worst for defending. 

Every time he shoots one down, another appears: he keeps shooting valiantly, until he runs out of bullets in his clip – there’s no time to reload, so he just deflects bullets with his shield; he throws it, knocking a bunch of them down. 

Suddenly, a few of them fall at once: some are struck from behind, a few simply collapse. When they’ve all fallen, he notices Wanda and Natasha behind them – Wanda’s eyes glowing red, and Natasha’s guns smoking.  
“Thanks for that,” He tells them, with a nod of thanks, before reloading his clip. 

“Even more are coming from the building – the plans were not wrong, this keep is vast!” Thor tells them.  
“More?” Wanda asks incredulously.  
“Well this is going about as well as when that interviewer asked Bucky if being genderqueer just means he puts dresses on sometimes,” Natasha deadpans, as she reloads her clip.  
“Do _not_ remind me,” Bucky says, though he smirks slightly, at the memory – even Steve hasn’t yet outdone the rant he went off on, when he was asked that, in one of the newspaper interviews he gave after his trial, about his life now. 

“I’ve got some more bad news for ya,” Scott says over comms. Bucky takes a deep breath.  
“What?”  
“Hostages. ‘Volunteers’ – hundreds of them. In the basement,”  
“We can’t afford a single civilian casualty, here,” Natasha tells Bucky. He nods – he already knows. They’ve been given permission to use deadly force by T’Challa, on this mission, but accidentally using it on a single innocent hostage doesn’t even bear thinking about. 

When the Avengers contacted T’Challa, after Bucky’s trial ended and he was instated as Captain America at length, they offered him their services to make up for the damage and the lives lost in Wakanda during the Ultron debacle. Earlier this week, he got in contact with them, saying he’d scoped out an AIM base on Wakandan soil, thought to contain a whole host of stolen artefacts – most importantly, T’Challa’s private reserve of vibranium. He requested that the Avengers dismantle the base and, though it looked much larger than previous AIM bases in plans Scott and Hope’s ants managed to help them figure out by filming the interior, they decided they could handle it. Even when Rhodey’s infra-red flyover scans indicated heat signatures consistent with activated extremis subjects. 

But now they’re in up to their necks: Wanda looks tired, and Natasha looks pissed. Even Thor’s lightning is losing its ferocity, after such a long period of time in battle. Bucky knows his war paint is probably smudged all over his face, but he doesn’t care. They can’t afford to let any innocent Wakandans get hurt, here, or else they’re simply adding to the civilian casualties that Bruce and Tony racked up two years back. 

“Alright,” Bucky says, drawing himself to his full height, his tone decisive. “We wait for Ant-Man and Wasp to fry the security measures. We don’t wanna trip any alarms while we’re rescuing the hostages. When that’s done, I want Sam and Wanda on the inside, helping them out with the rescue. Widow, Thor, War Machine – the perimeter. Coordinate with the authorities, when they arrive to pick up the hostages. In the meantime – pick off rogue agents trying to escape,”  
“What about you?” Sam asks, concerned.  
“Recon. For the artefacts,” He explains.  
“You do not have to work alone, Captain,” Wanda tells him, looking concerned. She knows just how often he’s been alone; how often he’s worked alone, isolated from everyone he loves, and everyone who truly cares for him.  
“Ant-Man and Wasp can find their way to me, when their work is done. Help me carry the artefacts out,” He decides.  
“10:4,” Hope says over the radio.  
“Alright. Avengers – assemble!” He says, and he, Wanda and Natasha burst around the corner, back into the fray, and the open space surrounding the base, though the perimeter gate has long since been busted wide open by one of Rhodey’s repulsor attacks. 

The three of them are a blur of movement: hand-to-hand contact, and gunfire, and hexes, all to take out as many AIM agents as possible, while trying to sustain no damage at all. 

Bucky throws his shield at one particular agent, who manages to dodge it: but, much to his surprise, the shield doesn’t fly off to somewhere unreachable. No – someone catches it. 

Steve hits the agent who dodged the shield directly in the face with it, before knocking his feet out from under him, so he falls to the ground. He directs a mischievous smile at Bucky, before throwing him the shield, so he can smash it into an agent that’s trying to creep up behind him. 

He sprints over to Steve, shooting agents as he goes, and watching Steve’s mesmerising hand-to-hand combat skills, wherever he can.  
“Captain!” Steve calls to him, by way of a greeting.  
“Commander!” Bucky calls back, in between shots. “Didn’t think you and your New Commandos were coming today!”  
“Still not sure about that name,” Steve protests, before adding, “The Avengers aren’t the only ones who owe T’Challa a debt,” He jumps into the air to kick an agent directly in the chest. “I was on the roster that day, too,”  
“Just admit it, Steve-” Bucky says, swinging the shield at Steve, who ducks, allowing it to smack into an AIM agent’s head with a resounding _clang_. “You miss me,” He says, raising an eyebrow cheekily, as Steve straightens up again.  
“Hell yes I do,” Steve says, jumping forward to kiss Bucky, quick and dirty, in the middle of the fight. Bucky laughs into it – he shoots an enemy agent, looking over Steve’s shoulder, before they both pull away, moving seamlessly back into battle.  
“It’s only been a couple of days,” Bucky points out. “Guess you just couldn’t resist getting in on this, huh,”  
“Well,” Steve says, casting a grin at Bucky, “It does mean I get to see you in your costume,” 

Bucky shoots six agents in a row, watching them to make sure they fall down like as many dominoes, before he turns a lightly sultry gaze to Steve. “. . . I can relate,” 

Steve’s new suit is muted, and dark: all black, with just one grey star in the centre of his chest. Other than that, it’s got the same general cut as Steve’s old stealth suit. In contrast, Bucky's suit is red, silver and blue – though the principal colour is red, compared with Steve’s old uniform, which was mainly blue. It has no left sleeve, for manoeuvrability, and has design elements that fit in with his new arm, which has an exoskeleton comprised of Tony Stark’s last remaining reserves of vibranium, which he bought at an incredibly high price from T’Challa in the first place, as a gesture of good faith. 

Bucky had the arm scanned three times, and checked by five different scientists for traps, before he put it on. He had to be sure, even after his and Tony’s reconciliation – where Tony actually said the words _I’m sorry_ , and Steve apologised for punching him in the face – he doesn’t know if he can ever trust Tony fully, after what he did. But they’re at least civil, now. 

“No Stark today?” Steve asks, casting his gaze around – he can only spot Thor, Sam and Rhodey in the sky, at the moment.  
“No. Says he’s still got _community service_ ,” Bucky says – though everyone knows his sentence for all of the seriously damaging leaks he committed has long since been served. Tony was commanded to teach free of charge at Columbia University, to help college kids be better scientists. He’s complained about it extensively, but everyone knows he loves it, really (or else he wouldn’t still be doing it, months after he’s supposed to have stopped). Bucky’s even been told by Pepper that he’s taking on a couple of interns, Peter and Gwen, to come and work in his lab over summer. _And you say you hate teaching kids. Sure, Tony_ , had been Pepper’s amused response, to that. 

Steve’s own sentence was a suspended one: he was put on a probation period, still working for the Avengers in a non-combatant capacity, for eight months. After that, he decided to form a more covert team – being a convicted criminal, now – to try and remain out of the public eye, for a while. And thus, his _New Commandos_ were born, with members who wished to remain more anonymous, while still being Avengers-adjacent. 

“Who else is on your roster today?” Bucky asks, brutally grabbing one agent with his left hand, and swinging him into three others in a sweeping motion, sending them flying, before throwing the first away as far as he can.  
“The Vision is behind the base, helping with escapees back there. Hawkeye – well, he’s in position now-” He points at a nearby armoured truck. Bucky glances over to it: he can see Clint standing on top of it, shooting enemies down with his bow; beside him stands a familiar figure, wielding a rifle, picking off AIM agents like she was born for it. 

“Is that Rikki?” Bucky asks, and Steve can hear the note of pride in his voice. Steve grins.  
“She finally took me up on my offer. She’s got some combat-ready legs now,” Steve tells Bucky.  
“Atta girl,” Bucky says, jumping up to kick two agents at once. 

Suddenly, a figure dressed all in black lands beside them: Bucky raises his gun, but finds himself disarmed in a second.  
“Easy!” Steve says, catching Bucky’s fist. “This is T’Challa,”  
“ _Prince_ T’Challa,” T’Challa says, standing up straight, and not removing his mask.  
“He decided to come and help us,” Steve explains.  
“To protect my investment. A favour from the Avengers has a lot of value – even if they frequently cause more damage than good,” T’Challa points out. “I’m here to be sure that none of these rats leave their sinking ship,”  
“Understood,” Bucky says. T’Challa hands him back his gun, and though he can’t see his face, Bucky reckons he’s receiving a judgemental look. He remembers T’Challa’s speech, from last year, about _collateral damage_ – he can only hope that he’s repaying his debt, in his eyes. 

“If you boys are quite finished!” Natasha yells over to them, fighting tooth and nail with her electrified batons to ward off agents from where they’re standing. 

T’Challa springs into action: he’s lithe, and his movements are athletic, and acrobatic as Steve and Bucky’s own – but without him being a super soldier, or even a _soldier_. Bucky notices the claws on his costume, which he presumes are formed of vibranium. 

“He’s good!” Bucky calls to Steve. Steve smirks.  
“Oh yeah,” He agrees. They continue to wade through scores of enemies, breaking bones and knocking folks out cold, for a few more minutes, as both teams follow the orders of their respective captain and commander. 

The Vision comes in to land beside Wanda: they address Steve, “No one will be leaving via the back entrances. I have sealed them off completely by interfacing to override the controls,”  
“Good work,” Steve says, nodding to them – watching as they look at Wanda, who smiles brightly at them. For the first time Steve and Bucky think they’ve seen, the Vision smiles back at her, looking almost carefree, before they begin fighting, side-by-side with Wanda. 

The next few minutes are a blur: it feels, to Bucky, like a pretty high stakes game of frisbee, with him and Steve throwing the shield back and forth between them, between acrobatic manoeuvres and shots from Bucky’s various firearms. 

It’s only after about ten minutes that the flow of enemies from the base begins to let up a little: they all hear an alarm, before Bucky hears Hope’s voice through the comms device in his ear:  
“Cap – we’re through. Security is fried. Don’t say we’re not professionals,”  
“Well _you_ are – I don’t know about Scott!” He says, getting an agent in a chokehold, before kicking his knees out from under him. “Are we clear to get to the hostages?”  
“We’re clear,”  
“Alright. Sam, Wanda, make your way inside – I’ll come too, I have to find the artefacts,” Bucky orders.  
“On your own?!” Steve says, tossing an agent to one side nonchalantly, and giving Bucky a suspicious look.  
“Um,” Bucky says, not liking the disapproval he sees on Steve’s face. “I am the Captain,”  
“Well I’m the Commander,”  
“Not of the Avengers, you’re not!” Bucky points out.  
“Just take the old man with you, he’s not seen you for what, a couple of days? What if he forgets what you look like?” Natasha jibes, electrocuting an extremis-fuelled agent, until he drops to the floor, twitching. 

“. . . Fine. Come with me, Commander,” Bucky says, beckoning Steve, slotting his shield onto his left arm; Steve strides alongside him to his right.  
“I’m starting to think you guys calling each other by ranks isn’t just a military thing,” Sam says from his left – Bucky jumps, and almost smashes him with the shield on reflex – he didn’t see him land, or come up behind them.  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam,” Steve says, with a bright smile, though he looks into Bucky’s eyes immediately after saying it, and Bucky knows that’s a dirty lie. 

“Falcon!” Wanda says, beckoning him to her side, as they all enter the base through the front door. “To the basement – and the hostages,” She says.  
Steve and Bucky head into the entrance first, Bucky using his shield to deflect enemy fire, and Steve using acrobatic skill to avoid it. Wanda hexes enemy agents, causing them to drop their weapons, and Sam uses his expert marksmanship to aim for their shoulders. They work as a seamless team, until the room falls quiet, and they have to divide up into two teams to go their separate ways. 

“Captain?” Wanda says – Steve and Bucky both turn around. But she’s addressing Bucky.  
“I sense . . . An energy here. One similar to that produced by the reality stone fragment, when it arrived at the Avengers facility. The feel of it permeates the air,” She tells him. His eyes widen slightly, and he looks at Steve. He’s staring intently at Wanda.  
“I fear she is right, as usual, Captain. Have care,” Thor’s voice crackles in over the comms, loud enough for Steve to hear. “Once you have been in contact with one of these stones, the others may know you have been in communion with their sibling – they may have a certain allure,”  
“It’ll want me to touch it?” Bucky asks, looking between Wanda, Sam and Steve.  
“Sounds that way,” Sam says, shrugging. “. . . Maybe Steve and I should handle the artefacts?” He asks gingerly. But Bucky shakes his head. 

“No. It won’t have that effect on me,” Bucky says, sounding certain.  
“How do you know?” Sam asks. Bucky looks him in the eye, and carefully places a hand on his shoulder – a gesture of trust, and loyalty.  
“I know. I promise you as your friend that I know,” He says sincerely. All pretence of joking camaraderie they usually maintain is absent, from the truthful statement. 

He looks to Wanda: her eyes are red-rimmed, and he knows she’s skimming his mind, trying to ascertain that he’s totally sure. She looks thoughtful – but her perceptive gaze isn’t harmful, even accidentally, like the first couple of times she looked into his mind. They communicate without speaking, as she examines his reasoning. 

Finally, she smiles knowingly. “. . . Yes. You will be fine,” She says. He nods.  
“Good luck. Stay safe. Stay alive,” Bucky tells them both.  
“Yes Captain,” Wanda says with a smile, half laughing as he mock-salutes each of them, mainly as a jibe at Steve’s usual behaviour, when he was Captain America.  
“Sir yes sir!” Sam says, laughing too, as he and Wanda take off down the corridor together. 

Steve looks at Bucky, wondering what Wanda saw in his brain that made her so sure that the stone won’t have any effect on him – but he turns away with a smile, beckoning Steve, and Steve can’t help but follow. 

-

It doesn’t take long to find the artefact room: it’s heavily guarded, as they expected, but AIM clearly weren’t counting on not one but two super-soldiers trying to invade today, plus two elite teams of superheroes. They might have known about the Avengers, if they had the right intel – but Steve’s team are a stealth operation, and hardly anyone in the world knows about them. Aside from T’Challa, apparently, who’s decided to join the roster at least for today. 

But when they manage to bust into the room, it’s everything they expected, and more: it’s more like a museum, than any sort of lab. It’s lowly lit, with each artefact in a glass case on its own, lit by its own small light. 

“There’s got to be hundreds of exhibits in here, Buck,” Steve murmurs, enraptured, as they pass by all sorts of gems, and precious metals, and alien tech. “Any one of these things could be what they used to make extremis work, without Killian’s formula,” He points out. 

But Bucky stops in front of one case in particular. And Steve just knows. 

He gazes into the case, and sees a stone: it’s a yellow stone that would fit comfortably into the palm of his hand. It glistens in the light, and even Steve has to admit that it has a certain mystical allure, despite that fact that it’s visibly missing a small chunk. He pries his gaze from the gem, and looks to his left, and at Bucky. 

His eyes are wide: his face is thoughtful, and he looks _happy_. Happy enough for his eyes to be shining, in fact. Steve gently reaches for his right hand, hoping he won’t react badly to the contact. But he immediately squeezes Steve’s hand back. Steve’s about to ask what’s going on in his mind, when he finally speaks:  
“When I touched the stone – the part of it set into Zemo’s ring,” He begins, sniffing lightly. “I saw . . . Hundreds of realities. Thousands. Alternate futures, and pasts . . . I saw everything,” Bucky tells him, and Steve bites his lip, because he can’t even imagine it – the multitude of things that couldn’t be, and that might still be. He, himself, has often wondered what life would be like if things had been different – if the passing of time hadn’t been so cruel to them – but he can’t imagine what toll it would have on Bucky, whose life has been laced with sorrow and misfortune at almost every single turn. 

“. . . Must’ve been so hard. Seeing how things could have gone differently in the past,” Steve sympathises. Bucky shakes his head.  
“No – no, those . . . Those weren’t the ones I focussed on. I mainly thought about the future. I saw all sorts of things for us – me and you, together,” He explains, and licks his lips. Steve spots a tear fall down his face with his remembrance, which is almost trance-like – but then he looks down sharply, and away from the stone. He doesn’t look like he’s in as much of a reverie, anymore. 

“I knew I wasn’t going to want to touch the stone again. Because I’ve got everything I want. I wouldn’t change a damn thing, Stevie,” Bucky says, looking up and right into Steve’s eyes, though his throat is tight, and his eyes burn. He seems so fiercely honest and brimming with adoration that Steve feels tears start to prickle at his eyes, again. He still doesn’t know what Bucky changed, when he held the stone – but it says a lot that this, their imperfect world where they still have to fight each day to be themselves, and to be healthy, and free – to be with each other . . . This is _perfect_ , for him. This is what he’d choose every time. He’s happy with it. 

“Me too, Buck,” Steve whispers to him. “. . . Can I kiss you, right now?” Steve asks. Laughter bubbles up from within Bucky, and he nods, before leaning in to kiss Steve. 

Steve’s hands loop around Bucky, fingers interlocking at the small of his back, tucked in behind his shield. Bucky’s metal hand cups Steve’s cheek, while his flesh hand falls down to cling lightly to Steve’s belt. 

Steve pulls him close, hugging him, because this is it, for them – their future, together. Working together sometimes, but being together _always_ , and til the end of the line. 

“. . . What other futures did you see for us?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and smiling because it sounds silly.  
“I don’t know. Married, with a – with a family,” He laughs. “Stupid, right? As if we could ever pull that off,”  
Steve smiles too. “We’ll have to talk about that second one,” He says, “But – hey, would you mind going in my pocket? The second one to the right of my belt-buckle?” 

Bucky opens his eyes, frowning at Steve. His right hand creeps to the pocket he’s talking about, unfastening the Velcro, and reaching inside. 

“You and me, Buck . . .” He whispers in Bucky’s ear, planting a kiss to his cheek, as Bucky’s fingers search for what Steve wants him to find. His eyes widen, as his fingers brush up against something velvety, and cuboidal. A box. A _ring-box_. Steve pulls away, enough to see the expression of surprise on Bucky’s face. 

“How about it?” 

Bucky smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks!! Thanks so much for reading, and for all your support over the last new months. Thanks so much for your patience, and all your kind words, both here and on twitter and tumblr. 
> 
> Acknowledgements: first of all I'd like to thank @queerwirt on twitter, for discussing the basic plot to this fic with me last October. This thing has been almost a year in the making, and at over 100k words, you can probably believe that. Yikes. Anyway, thank you, friend!!
> 
> Other folks on twitter who deserve a shout-out for reading this and yelling at me about it, and generally being super enthusiastic - jaimie, jay, jade, hope, iole, adair, riley - and everyone else who's put up with me talking about it. Y'all are rad af. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's left a comment here supporting me, everyone who's told others about this, and everyone who's left kudos. You guys are the literal best. Honestly, finishing this wouldn't feel anywhere near as good without you guys. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at comraderogers, and on twitter @C0MMANDERROGERS. Cheers!!


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